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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22566577">Until It Ends There Is No End</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesshelga/pseuds/jesshelga'>jesshelga</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>I’m Finding It Hard To Believe (We’re In Derry) [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bisexual Eddie Kaspbrak, Domestic Fluff, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, Gay Richie Tozier, M/M, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Shameless 1980s Music References, Slow Burn, Stephen King References, The Turtle CAN Help Us (IT)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 08:40:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>33,922</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22566577</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesshelga/pseuds/jesshelga</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>If true love's kiss can wake you from The Deadlights and love declarations can save you from Pennywise's madness, then it stands to reason that re-carving initials into the Kissing Bridge after defeating It--the culmination of a long-standing true-love-since-they-were-kids story--summons enough Uncle Stevie turtle magic to save an only mostly dead Eddie Kaspbrak.</p><p>Also includes references to vintage Return of the Jedi valentines, Bryan Adams lyrics, Pound Puppies, and, of course, a Street Fighter tee shirt that is available at Macy's, not Target, but artistic license.</p><p>(Almost) All of King's Maine canon exists here. I slipped in some references to Castle Rock and Desperation/The Regulators because I like them so much.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>I’m Finding It Hard To Believe (We’re In Derry) [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2030017</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>62</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>265</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. I’m Finding It Hard To Believe (We’re In Derry)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I'm a real johnny-come-lately to the It 2 camp, though I've been crazy about It since I read the book in my youth (and, of course, saw the 1990s miniseries and was forever impacted by Tim Curry's Pennywise). I apologize if this is already well-tread ground, but after renting the movie in mid-December, I was slowly driven insane by a constant argument with the film's internal logic: if Ben and Bev's story of long-unrequited (or at least unacknowledged) true love has these transformative, magical properties, and Richie leaves town and basically does something as powerful as the Ritual of Chüd all on his own, why isn't that enough to reverse It's last big eff-you murder?</p><p>I really, sincerely feel like this is a hill I would die on (pun only somewhat intended). Anyway, I've been slowly going insane writing this ever since. Enjoy.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Somehow, Richie avoided nightmares that first night after killing It, the first night after Eddie had died and been buried in the dank rubble of the Neibolt Street house. If anything, Richie figured he would have been paralyzed by flashes of horror--the gaping wound in Eddie’s chest covered by Richie’s own wadded jacket; Eddie’s blank sightless eyes, the ones that communicated </span>
  <em>
    <span>death death death gone forever lights out</span>
  </em>
  <span> as Richie forced out words about getting him help; the bits and pieces of visions he’d been force-fed while in the grasp of the Deadlights...</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After returning to the Town House--</span>
  <em>
    <span>Why the fuck not? </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thought to himself with as much venom as he could muster. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Why not come back to the place where that fucknut Bowers stabbed Eddie in the face, why not come back to a cobwebbed spookhole that seems to be run by ghosts like it’s a setpiece in a goddamn Kubrick movie--</span>
  </em>
  <span>Richie wandered away from the others to his room, where he proceeded to take a 30-minute-long hot shower (at least 50% of which he’d spent sobbing so hard he felt as though he had been kicked in the solar plexus) that seemed to result in a heavy weariness that could only be solved by sleep he no longer had the strength to dread.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d only had the lights off for a few seconds when he heard a knock on his door. Kicking the comforter off and jamming his glasses on his face, he allowed himself a hopeless, helpless thought of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eddie?</span>
  </em>
  <span> then threw open his door to Bev.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thought you might like some company for a little while,” she said, shaking a brand-new pack of Virginia Slims at him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie couldn’t help himself. “Jesus, Bev, did you bring us a sixer of Tab too?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A quarter of a smile and a punch in the shoulder was his only reply. She held out a cigarette to him and, shrugging, he took it and let her light it for him. “We’ve come a long way, baby,” he lisped… then felt an immediate shame and discomfort creep across his skin. </span>
  <em>
    <span>R + who, Trashmouth? Who is the plus sign for? Proof positive you’re a fag, more like</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thought in a voice that sounded very much like a teenaged Henry Bowers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bev inhaled a lungful of smoke and poison, put a palm flat against his chest and pushed him back towards the rumpled bed. “Come on, Rich. I’m tired.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You are, huh? Tired? When you’ve got old Zebra Romance cover model-slash-architect Ben waiting for you?” He sat back, bounced up and down on the mattress, feeling leaden even as his words were light.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’d you ever </span>
  <em>
    <span>learn </span>
  </em>
  <span>about Zebras? Your mom never would’ve read shit like that.” Bev took a seat next to him. They each took a drag, and Richie grabbed a Coke Zero can off the nightstand to act as their ashtray.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sonia Kaspbrak read ‘em by the grocery-bagful,” he replied after a moment had passed. “One night, I was sleeping over at Eddie’s, and I started reading from one out loud. To make Eddie laugh. You know, doing voices, the whole nine…” He trailed off, stumbling through the memory, recalling he’d given the big-dicked Viking warrior a Swedish Chef flair that made Eddie laugh himself into a coughing fit. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stop!</span>
  </em>
  <span> he’d squeaked out, head under the covers, </span>
  <em>
    <span>You’re going to kill me, you asshole. You’re going to…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie felt his hands start to shake and took another drag off his Slim. “Anyway, why aren’t you with Ben… was the question, if I stop fucking around and just ask it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He felt a small, firm hand between his shoulder blades. “That’ll wait, honey.” She put her cheek to his arm, and he responded by slipping it around her and squeezing her. “Wanna lay down for a little bit?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie considered any number of sex-related jokes, but the softness of Bev’s voice only reminded him of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Honey, he’s dead</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and he said, “Sure.” He tossed 3/4 of the cigarette into the can and laid back, damp hair mashed on one of the lumpy, ancient pillows, and looked into Bev’s eyes for the first time. In the lamplight, she looked like a goddamn Gina Robins heroine to match Ben, wavy red hair haloing her porcelain features. She put a gentle hand to his cheek. “Eddie… Eddie loved all of us, but he did always love you best. You know that, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And despite the earlier wailing session in the shower, Richie was torn apart by grief again, hand mashed to his face to try to keep one single shred of himself in, to try to keep the snot off his upper lip, to try to do anything to stop the futility of sadness and anger that spun out in great big looping circles inside him. “I want him back, Bev. I want him back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know, Richie. I know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And he’s buried in the dark with that fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>thing</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He rolled to his side, and Bev lined herself up behind him. Something about her tiny form behind him snuffed out the tears for a moment. “Bev Marsh: the littlest big spoon.” She laughed. They were still and silent a long stretch, the only motion Bev occasionally patting one of Richie’s hands with her own, a still-burning cigarette in the other.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Need a tissue?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie could no longer ignore these easy setups. “What kind of sleepover is this, you perv?” A punch in the shoulder. “I’m telling our friend the <em>Men’s Fitness</em> model.” Punch. “Virginia Slims and a handjob sooooooo romantic.” A knee to the small of the back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He paused, thinking while Bev sat up, reached over to the nightstand, handed him a wad of tissues. “That sleepover...can I… tell you something else?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course you can, Rich.” She ruffled his hair, and he sighed, closing his eyes to draw all the details back in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“After the lights were out, Eddie asked me…  that </span>
  <em>
    <span>tone </span>
  </em>
  <span>he had when he was done being all puffed up, so serious and quiet… he asked, ‘Did you think that stuff in the book was… sexy?’ And I didn’t, Bev. It was dumb and gross and full of god-awful words for vagina and dick. But Eddie asking that question there in the dark… that shit gave me an immediate rock-hard boner.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He felt Bev exhale a half sigh, half laugh. “Richie…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can you imagine? 12 years old, as big as a member of the Lollipop Guild, wearing that fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>fanny pack</span>
  </em>
  <span> everywhere. His constant bitching and his wheezing and I </span>
  <em>
    <span>loved him, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Bev. I loved him. I wanted to plaster a picture of him in my locker like he was a goddamn </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tiger Beat</span>
  </em>
  <span> centerfold.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He flipped on his back to look into her face, to see her eyes filling with tears. “I saw him across the room at the Jade of the Orient and… the first thing I remembered was how fucking terrible it felt when his mother came and took him away from me… from us. I went out to the kissing bridge on my bike that summer… and carved our initials there. Like an </span>
  <em>
    <span>idiot.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not an idiot. Not at all. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry for it all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And now he’s gone, he’s gone, he’s gone…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bev laid down with him again, his littlest big spoon, his weapon-wielding badass friend (</span>
  <em>
    <span>the other one, the one who is left, the one who is actually little, because 5’9” is totally an average height for a man</span>
  </em>
  <span>), shushing and cooing at him. He cried himself out. Took off his glasses and let them clatter down next to their Coke Zero ashtray, closed his eyes, and plunged into a dreamless sleep.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After Bev and Ben blew town, after reporting Eddie missing to the Derry Police (“He mentioned he was going to go look at some of our old haunts… we’re worried he went to the Well House and, then, you know…” Mike said cryptically, which read like total bullshit to Richie… but then, he supposed, Derry Police were well-steeped in </span>
  <em>
    <span>years</span>
  </em>
  <span> of goddamn bullshit and missing persons reports), the official plan of action from the police seemed to be that they’d give it a day more, call Eddie’s wife, and then talk to the state about getting some corpse-sniffing dogs. Mike, Bill, and Richie discussed it on the steps of the station and agreed they’d see it through to the bitter end.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Delightful,” was the only sarcastic, drained word Richie could muster after the vote was taken.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Back at Mike’s conspiracy-nut book depository apartment, he, Bill, and Mike sat at a table picking at Italian sandwiches. After a minute or two of idly pushing the plate around with his fingertips, mustering what he hoped was a casual tone of voice, Richie asked, “Hey, Mike, do you remember hearing about a cemetery up in Ludlow when we were kids?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mike shot him a discouraging glance. “Richie…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look, from what I remember, shit didn’t turn out all that bad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“Sure.” Bill said cooly. “Only, what, five people died?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’s about ‘Salem’s Lot? What’s...shaking in The Lot these days?” Richie tried to smile, show he was riffing, joking, but he couldn’t quite get his tone to turn that corner; the words came out curious and hopeful.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rich, I’m packing up in a few days to go to Florida. I’d suggest you get the hell out of Maine too. Come with me. Or I bet Bill and his wife would be glad to have you for a few days.” Mike looked to Bill, who seemed to be as surprised as any of them that he still had a wife. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh… Audra. Yeah. Yeah, Richie. I mean, the movie is still shooting, but you and I could kick around…” Bill trailed off, and Richie finished sullenly in his head, </span>
  <em>
    <span>So that you don’t try to leverage the Pine Tree State’s unspeakable evil to resurrect our dead friend.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead of speaking, Richie raised his neglected sandwich to his mouth and unenthusiastically took a bite. After a swig of Coke Zero, he said, “Nah. Nah, I’ll… I’ll be heading back. My shows in Reno have been cancelled but I have dates in Denver coming up soon. I should get back to it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After getting a prescription for Ambien and a partial fucking lobotomy, he thought to himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On his way out of town, Richie stopped at the kissing bridge. Stan’s words from beyond the grave, the memory of him defiant at his bar mitzvah, had stirred him once again. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m not going to DeGeneres this… hell, I won’t even Todd Glass it… but yeah, turns out I like dudes, I’ve always liked dudes, so you’re right, Stan, I should admit what I’ve always been and will be, be happy, integrate it instead of hiding it.</span>
  </em>
  <span> But it was difficult to feel the warmth of Young Master Uris’s words when greeted by the discarded police tape that marked what had once been the crime scene of Adrian Mellon’s murder. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Scratch that: </span>
  </em>
  <span>hate crime </span>
  <em>
    <span>and murder.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>This fucking place</span>
  </em>
  <span>. So much of Derry was like that: carcasses of untimely and noisy death. Stan had compared It to cicadas 27 years ago, and he was right in more ways than one: It’s husks were everywhere.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie made his way over to the wooden railing and despite his dour reflections on his hometown, he brightened when he found the initials. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That’s here too. Couldn’t take that away, could you, you collective sacks of shit?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Flipping open a pocket-knife and shaking off memories of Bowers--young Bowers screaming hateful epithets; older Bowers with a skull full of tomahawk--Richie reworked the weathered wood. The more he carved, the more he thought about Eddie--young Eddie, tube socks and Andrew McCarthy haircut; older Eddie, same dorky polo shirts, same giant, dark eyes, but taller, somehow more frenetic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He thought about his words to Bev days ago: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I loved him, Bev. I loved him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie sighed. Took his glasses off and wiped his palm over his face. “I’m sorry, Eddie. I’m so sorry. I’d give anything to get you out of the ground.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a few more moments crouched on the roadside, he stood to full height, brushed at the initials one last time. On the walk back to his car, he saw a turtle making its way through the grass and gravel, seemingly heading for the other bank. Jogging over, Richie gently picked the turtle up. “Hey, hey, buddy. This town is bad business. You can’t go wandering into the road.” After setting it down pointed towards the water, Richie ensured the turtle continued its journey forward to safety down the opposing bank. He sighed, grabbed his keys, and headed for his car.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And across town, in a pocket of earth below Neibolt Street, something stirred.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first thing Eddie saw when he opened his eyes was garbage. So much garbage. A lawn full of garbage--an empty energy drink can, gritty corpses of plastic bags dotted all around, probably hypodermic needles and condoms…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jesus, how did he get here? This was almost worse than the Well House. Almost.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The second thing he saw was the front of his shirt. Or… some of the front of his shirt, some of his bare chest.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Which aches like a bastard, but not, like, asthma aches, weird bad aches</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>There was a gaping hole in the shirt, ringed with brown like a cigarette burn. Bundled in his lap was Richie’s leather jacket, stiffened and unpleasant to the touch, reeking of iron.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He took a deep breath, heard it shudder within him like he hadn’t taken a breath in days. “Guys?” he croaked. “Richie?” He coughed hard, and when he took his hand away from his mouth, he saw it was spattered with what looked like pellets of wet dirt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie attempted to rise to his feet but found it was tough going. His knees and thighs protested this action by refusing to assist, and he found himself falling to the grass--</span>
  <em>
    <span>and the garbage, Christ, this place is disgusting--</span>
  </em>
  <span>over and over. “I...I think I need help. Bev? Ben? Mike? I need help.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mr. Kaspbrak?” The voice was loud and authoritarian and close by. Eddie tensed. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That fucking clown.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Edward Kaspbrak?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mustering all the strength he could, he snapped, “Yeah? Who wants to know?” </span>
  <em>
    <span>I swear to everything holy, you evil asshole, I’m not going to go through one more round of Leper or Pomeranian with you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Derry Chief of Police Dennis Zalewski, sir. You were reported missing and possibly dead two days ago.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the last thing Eddie remembered was saying, “Yeah, I probably need a doctor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie tuned his rental’s radio to Sirius XM’s ‘90s station and was singing along joylessly to Fastball’s “The Way,” (</span>
  <em>
    <span>They drank up the wine/and they got to talking/</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>they now had more important things to say</span>
  </em>
  <span>) when an incoming call interrupted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The number was Bangor area code but unknown to his phone. Richie tapped the steering wheel to pick up. “Hello?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mr. Tozier?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is Chief Zalewski. Thought you may want to know we found Edward Kaspbrak today.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie’s guts turned over with an odd combination of relief and sorrow. </span>
  <em>
    <span>At least he’s above ground now, Rich. At least he can be cremated and buried in a series of prescription bottles or fired out of an aspirator into Jamaica Bay.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Well… thanks… thanks for calling, I guess. Is his wife coming for the body, or do you need me to…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mr. Tozier,” the chief interrupted, with a tone and volume of immediate, humorless authority only law enforcement and teachers ever seemed to master. “Mr. Kaspbrak was found alive not far from the collapsed house on Neibolt Street.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zalewski continued talking, something about transport to the hospital and wife on the way, but Richie couldn’t hear because he’d yanked the steering wheel over to the shoulder of State Route 9 at 70 mph, fishtailing his way into a stop while hyperventilating.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next call that came in was from Mike.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before Mike had a chance to speak, Richie blurt-screamed, “I swear to </span>
  <em>
    <span>God</span>
  </em>
  <span> I didn’t go to Ludlow, Mike. I swear to God.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>With the standard Mike Hanlon chill that belied an inclination to crazy, he replied, “I know, Rich. You would’ve had to have Eddie’s body… which you clearly didn’t since he was out front of the Well House when they found him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck,</span>
  </em>
  <span> man? </span>
  <em>
    <span>What is going on?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you… are you okay to drive, Richie?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“MIKE.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re still examining him. I don’t know. The place where he was--” Saliva filled Richie’s mouth as he thought </span>
  <em>
    <span>impaled,</span>
  </em>
  <span> feeling the ghostly sensation of viscera spattering across his face-- “--injured by It seems to be, uh, healed over, by all accounts. His face too. But he’s in shock and…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...has been dead and buried for three days like Jesus. Something in Derry rolled away the stone.” No longer able to contain his hysteria, Richie began laughing. He felt like he was, and probably was, losing his fucking mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rich, I think you should pull over.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In response, Richie pressed hard on the accelerator, increasing his speed to 85. “Are you at the hospital?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes. The rest are on their way back and Eddie’s wife is flying into Bangor in the next few hours, from what I understand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie returning from his unholy cavern grave was one thing, but the thought of Eddie’s wife was another. It had the effect of knotting up Richie’s hysteria in a tight, incomprensible ball of nervous, weird energy. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Guess both Kaspbrak widows will be present,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he thought in a voice that sounded an awful lot like Pennywise the Dancing Clown, all slushy with spittle and vileness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have you seen him?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not yet. Please… please be careful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>90 miles per hour felt too slow. “I’m 10 minutes away. I’ll see you soon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie sprinted through the Derry Hospital parking lot--so much running this week, he thought weakly, his lungs immediately burning--and approached the admissions desk, looking like he was having a mental health crisis (at least judging by the receptionist’s expression). “Hey, I’m Richie. Tozier. I’m here. To see…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mike walked up and put a steadying hand on Richie’s shoulder. “He’s with me. Thanks. I’ll take over from here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When can we see him?” Richie half-yelled. Mike responded by grabbing him by both shoulders, forcibly backing him against a wall, and shaking him like a broken vending machine. “Rich. Rich, you’ve got to stop. Slow down. I get it but </span>
  <em>
    <span>stop.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine, fine, fine, fine, fine,” Richie stammered. “Stop or I’ll get Shaken Tozier Syndrome.” Both of them panted into each other’s faces. He said the only thing he could think of: “This is super fucked up, Mike.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This isn’t… you didn’t give me whatever you gave Bill, did you? I’m not tripping balls, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I’m not on a psych hold somewhere having a nervous breakdown?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mike, trying his hand at being the comedian of the group, smiled and said, “Not yet.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie collapsed in a chair and banged the back of his head against the wall a few times, using the thumps to punctuate his next statement, “I hate. This. Fucking. Town.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mike sat down next to him. “Me too, Rich. Me… too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When can we see him?” They were the first words he’d said that didn’t feel caffeinated by mania and disbelief. They felt heavy and made a lump rise to his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They gave him a sedative so he’d sleep. It sounds like he was hurting. And his labs apparently came back with… odd results.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you don’t say.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They said we may be able to see him in a few hours when he wakes up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>If he wakes up,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Richie thought to himself in a panic. </span>
  <em>
    <span>If, if, if.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie slept. And Eddie dreamt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was at the kissing bridge outside of Derry, across from the field that served as the fairgrounds once a year. It was summer, heavy and cloying, but blessedly, the pollen count seemed to be low. He felt himself taking in deep inhalations of the humid air. His body accepted it without sneezing or itching or aching lungs.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Though his chest still hurt with a deep burn</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked down and saw a turtle near him, making its way towards the road. He picked it up</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Gently</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>and said, “Not a great idea, pal. Lotta semi trucks on this stretch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The turtle pulled its head and legs into its shell, and the ache in Eddie’s chest increased oppressively. He felt himself stagger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he opened his eyes again, he was in the bedroom of his childhood home. His own bed was tidily made and the Hot Wheels sleeping bag that Richie used during sleepovers was unfurled on the floor. Eddie looked out the window. The view wasn’t right: he’d never been able to see the park from his house, and the Bunyan statue was missing. In the distance, he saw a tall, dark-haired man</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Richie</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>his back turned to Eddie. Eddie leaned out the window anxiously and opened his mouth to call to him… and felt a warm, alarming amount of fluid gush out over his tongue and lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, no</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Then he was back to the bridge, the turtle shell in his hands, the pain in his chest easing. He looked down at the shell. Not knowing why, he said, “Thank you,” and placed it in the grass at his feet. When he rose, rain started to fall.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Smells like the quarry</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>And Eddie felt relief wash over him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The doctors spoke with Myra and Myra only. The medical professionals seemed unmoved by any begging or veiled threats (mild ol’ Bill swinging his multimillion-dollar-net-worth dick around, Richie thought with more admiration than he probably should) and were sticking to their HIPAA guns.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Myra emerged from the huddle, she seemed torn between distrust in the group gathered anxiously in the waiting area and a general sort of humanity in the face of their obvious worry. “He’s coming in and out of sleep. They said his bloodwork results seemed… contaminated so they’re taking more samples.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When can we see him?” Richie asked.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Myra eyed him. “I’m going to see him now. I’ll...ask him if he feels ready for visitors.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Visitors</span>
  </em>
  <span> sounded as much like a slur as anything Richie had ever heard from a spider-clown or a hometown bully. Bev put a hand on his forearm, psychically sensing his distress and insolence. To Eddie’s wife, in the coaxing, warm tone Bev normally reserved for the Losers, she said, “We really appreciate it, Myra. We’re really worried about him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The last I heard from him, he was with all of you. I don’t understand how you could have let this happen.” Regret filled her eyes after she snapped, but Myra walked away from them, offering no apology.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie slammed back down in his chair after glaring at her retreating form, muttering “Bitch” under his breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, there, and beep, beep, Richie. Let’s tread lightly.” Richie prepared to turn his anger at Bev, but looking into her vividly blue eyes, he saw his now-shared secret reflected back to him. She rubbed his forearm. “She’s his wife.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The arsenal of jokes about Myra’s weight seemed too surly and bitter in light of Bev’s tone and glance, and he said, “You’re right,” though he hoped his lack of conviction spoke for itself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben, hovering at Bev’s elbow, said, “I hate to make the mood around here even worse but… what are the odds this is some kind of last-ditch It fireworks display?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Four sets of eyes turned to Mike. Mike shrugged imperceptibly. “You all know as much as I do at this point. I mean… It seemed </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> dead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lots of...gunk drifting up into the ether,” murmured best-selling author Bill.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And we… y’know, </span>
  <em>
    <span>saw</span>
  </em>
  <span>…” Mike faltered, and Richie concluded, “...the Loser’s Club prequel in the pharmacy window.” Nodding, Mike added, “And our scars being gone and all that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben made a humming noise in the back of his throat, equal parts deep thought and nervousness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bill looked to Richie. “You didn’t… you didn’t do any of the things you were joking about, right, Rich?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Throwing his hands up innocently, Richie repeated, with markedly less vehemence, his earlier statement to Mike, “I had nothing to do with this, I swear. No cemetery visits or vampire house calls.” He paused. “But you’d all probably thank me if I had. Can you imagine Eddie as a blasphemous creature from beyond the grave? Listing how many diseases can be contracted from eating uncooked brain? Bill, this is a killer premise. You should probably be taking notes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Losers all laughed and settled in. Richie outwardly chuckled but, in the depths of his soul, he continued thinking </span>
  <em>
    <span>bitch.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie knew the vows he’d made: love, honor, cherish, ‘til death do them part.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So… Death made a pit stop. What does that do to marriage vows, he wondered as Myra gripped his hand. He imagined that if he weren’t filled to the gills with a pharma cocktail, it might hurt. But he felt nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite knowing his loving wife had every right to be at his bedside weeping, Eddie found that he was more than a little resentful of her presence (though that could’ve been the drugs they were pumping into him). They’d been together for a little over a decade, settled into their comfortable codependent routine. He wasn’t sure how or where to begin to explain, “Honey, I didn’t mention it when we were getting together, but my childhood was haunted by a terrifying ancient evil. My friends and I thought we killed It, and the reason I’m laying here is we all reunited to battle It again, but only after the </span>
  <em>
    <span>human</span>
  </em>
  <span> bully from middle school stabbed me in the face--oh, he murdered his dad, then escaped from a mental institution-- is that I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>pretty</span>
  </em>
  <span> sure I was killed. I mean, I can’t remember, but I have a gnarly bunch of scar tissue on my chest indicating I’m not too far off base. Anyway, I faced my fears, revisited my past, and I’m pretty sure being with you moving forward is not a psychologically healthy move. Oh also there’s the I Am Pretty Sure I Died thing, which seems to create its own set of challenges vis-a-vis relating to you as a human who has </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> died and/or seen crazy fucked-up shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As much as he wanted to say it… now was not the time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you, Eddie!” Myra wailed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cotton-mouthed and unconvincing to his own ears, he dutifully said, “I love you too, Myra.” Then “Is… is anyone else here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The next time the Losers saw Myra, she was civil, but only just. “He wants to see you,” she said flatly. “He’s… still very unwell. Don’t upset him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie was already halfway down the hall, the others hurrying behind him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d tried to prepare, certain his brain could put together just the right collection of old jokes and affectionate-but-scalding insults so that one thing in this godforsaken set of circumstances would feel normal and regular.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then he opened the door and was faced with Eddie. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Alive </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eddie. Eddie was </span>
  <em>
    <span>alive.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Big brown eyes glassy with exhaustion and sedative, hooked up to an IV drip, but chest, minus a gaping wound, visibly rising and falling, filling two intact lungs with oxygen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And all Richie could say was “Eddie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie’s own name rang through him with a great big shockwave of </span>
  <span>déjà vu.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A whisper bursting with horror and disbelief and pain Richie never whispered this is bad and shit shit shit I can’t feel my legs that is ALSO bad</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Struggling against a wave of nausea, Eddie replied, “Hey, Rich. Hey… everybody.” Then he took in the sight of Bill, Bev, Ben, and Mike piling through the doorway like they were doing some kind of slapstick comedy bit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bev was the first one to approach and touch him, stroking his face like a mother would comfort a despondent child. Bev was always so gentle despite her bravado and cool exterior. To Eddie, it was the first comfort he’d truly felt since waking up. He smiled, and Ben, Bill, and Mike surged forward, touching whatever limited part of Eddie they could--and began to talk all at once.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Eddie’s eyes never left Richie. Richie, standing back from everyone else, nervously tugging at his own arms, blinking rapidly, breathing audibly above the machines and the HVAC unit humming and the words of the other Losers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After five minutes had passed, Eddie lost track of who he was supposed to be listening to or talking to and said, quietly but firmly enough to interrupt the tangle of voices, “Richie.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And to Eddie’s surprise, Richie Tozier, compulsive mother-fucker, inhaler thief, and indomitable asshole, began to cry.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That bad, huh?” Eddie mumbled. The ragged edges of drug-induced sleep were appearing in his consciousness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie stepped forward and thunked down in the chair nearest to the bed and clumsily pressed his face to Eddie’s chest, glasses and all. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Those new?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Eddie cloudily thought, recalling a sparkly star of a crack in one of Richie’s lenses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before sleep overtook him once again, encouraged by Richie acting as a human weighted blanket, Eddie slurred, “Lotta...semi trucks...on this stretch.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Learn more about Todd Glass, a slight elder to Richie Tozier by Googling "Todd Glass Comes Out On WTF"</p><p>Chief Zalewski is a nod to the button-faced Dennis Zalewski of S1 Castle Rock (now available on Hulu; watch it today)</p><p>Please learn more about Zebra Romances at your local library (or, more likely, at an estate sale of a friend's grandma)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. We’re All Looking for Something to Ease the Pain</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Eddie recovers in the hospital, memories and dreams begin to stitch together, Richie is finding it hard to believe he's in heaven, and, of course, Richie buys Eddie a gluten-free, egg-free blueberry muffin that becomes a bone of contention.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The second set of labs came back much improved. Bill only knew this because he’d bribed the phlebotomist, circumventing the constrictive law and order upheld by the rest of the staff. The fluids, the bland hospital food, and the rest seemed to be doing good work, though the echocardiogram had “puzzling and abnormal” indicators and his chest x-ray included what appeared to be abnormal but benign bone growths (this was Mike leveraging a relationship with one of the physician assistants)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Two days had passed. Bev, Bill, Ben, and Mike stood outside their shared VRBO riverside cottage--God bless Ben for thinking on his feet when they had some downtime at the hospital the first night--discussing eating anywhere but the hospital for a change. Richie, sensing an opportunity that was not likely to be available again, said, “You guys go without me. I’m going to head over.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ben gave him a concerned and slightly judgmental once-over. “Rich, I don’t know how to say this but: you should take a shower, man.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Look, I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>very </span>
  </em>
  <span>flattered, dude, but for the last time: just because I said you’re hot doesn’t mean I want to hook up with you. Please stop hitting on me.” Bev and Bill snickered. Mike and Ben rolled their eyes in unique but equally dismissive ways.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie waited until they all departed down the sidewalk before surreptitiously sniffing at one of his armpits. Shrugging, he jumped into his car and made his way into the center of town, stopping briefly at the latest attempt at a tourist-friendly coffee house featuring baked goods and espresso.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When he arrived at Eddie’s room, he was doubly pleased to discover Myra had yet to arrive--her hotel was near the airport, a 25-min drive from Derry (</span>
  <em>
    <span>out-of-towner</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Richie smirked to himself). Eddie opened his eyes and murmured a nearly unintelligible greeting; Richie’s reply was to unceremoniously toss a brown paper bag on Eddie’s bedside tray.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After several sips of water, which seemed to greatly assist with his full swim to consciousness, Eddie asked “What’s that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“A gluten-free blueberry muffin. Egg-free too.” Hands crammed in his pockets, shoulders slouched, shrugging, Richie tried to exude casual ease.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The effect on Eddie was immediate. A crease appeared between his eyebrows and he said saltily, “All this kindness is beginning to freak me the fuck out. Could you please do something normal? And for God’s sake, dude, you look like </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Have you taken a shower in the last year?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Relief washed over Richie in a great, overwhelming wave. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yep, he’s back.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Unzipping his hoodie and tossing it into a chair, he said, “What’s that, sir? You want a </span>
  <em>
    <span>hug?</span>
  </em>
  <span> I mean, you’re still recovering but if you </span>
  <em>
    <span>insist…</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, no, no!” Weakly, Eddie raised his hands but Richie really had his teeth in the premise and advanced.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“In this age of consent, I know I shouldn’t say this but: you don’t mean no, Spaghetti-O.” Richie folded over his bedridden friend, making sure to press an armpit right to Eddie’s nose. “Mm, that’s the stuff. The warm embrace of Edward Kaspbrak.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Muffled bleating came from below him. “Get </span>
  <em>
    <span>off</span>
  </em>
  <span> me, you dick. You smell like unwashed gym shorts.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s cologne. Eau de Scrote. It’s expensive.” He pedaled back to admire Eddie’s face, scrunched in disgust. “Also, you might want to consider washing this chocolate milk crust off your face.” Richie rubbed at the stubble around Eddie’s lips and chin. “There. Is that better, you bellyaching bitch?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Directing his eyes to a fixed spot somewhere on the floor and continuing to scowl, Eddie replied, “Yes.” Then Richie watched him lose steam--</span>
  <em>
    <span>like a balloon deflating oh no bad analogy forget that</span>
  </em>
  <span>--and his next words were colorless. “Richie, what… what happened?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie had heard through his ill-gotten information network that Eddie had shared with the neurologist and the social worker that the last thing he remembered was Henry Bowers stabbing him. Richie was nearly 80% certain that had to be a lie. But in case it wasn’t, he said, “Is the last thing you remember Bowers at the inn?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie squinted, indicating via eyebrow knitting that Richie was a dope for asking. “No. Seemed like the right part of the timeline to pick. I assume the cops found him in the library.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yup. Weirdest thing but that’s unsolved. No one seems to know how an escaped convict and crazy person ended up at the library with an axe in his noggin but it doesn’t seem to have anything to do with the fact that said escaped convict stabbed you in the face and all your friends were still hanging around town.” Richie took a moment to look at the puckered scar that ran perpendicular to Eddie’s impossibly deep dimple. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Well, that’s adorably badass.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  “The cops in this town are reliably the fucking worst.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie smiled but it faded seconds later. “Rich.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie took a seat, nervously threading his hoodie between his hands. “What’s the last thing you </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>remember?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Confidently, Eddie replied, “Throwing a spike through Its’ head.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie stared at his own hands. “Mm-hmm.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Something… something bad happened, didn’t it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Turning his chair so that he was facing Eddie, Richie said, “Yeah. Yeah, Eds. It was… not good.” Sense memory churned up the stillness of Eddie’s body in his arms, the claustrophobic panic as he watched the house cave in, and for a moment, Richie teetered perilously close to losing his shit again. “But you’re… here now. Getting better. Puzzling, puzzling shit, but… you’re here.” Self-consciously, Richie reached out and put one of his hands on Eddie’s shoulder, sliding it down his arm to his hand. Richie squeezed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie looked at him intensely and squeezed back. Then he said, “Seriously, dude, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please </span>
  </em>
  <span>go brush your teeth and take a shower.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie sighed affectionately. “I’m going to throw you back down the well, you little shit. Return to sender.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That evening, left alone after another exhausting day of questions and tests, Eddie brooded. Learning how to use his legs with any semblance of coordination was the day’s big event--going to the bathroom to piss, besides a wobbly moment where he nearly tipped his IV stand over in the process, felt like some kind of milestone achievement. It would have been tragic if he didn’t have Richie’s words </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah, Eds, it was not good</span>
  </em>
  <span> playing on a skip in his head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Not good equals dead. I was dead.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Out loud to the empty room, he asked, “How am I </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> dead?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The hushed sound of hospital personnel in the hall outside his room was the only reply.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie then turned his attention to the uneaten muffin on the side table. He leaned over and picked it up, turning it over the bag in his hands. A long-dormant memory flickered to life.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>It was Valentine’s Day. 1st grade. They’d spent the morning building mailboxes out of construction paper. Eddie was very proud of his because he’d drawn ridges on the maildrop flap so that it looked like the one at his house (even though their flap was silver metal, not purple paper). He raised his hand to ask permission to hand it to the teacher when Richie appeared at his desk. “You’re not supposed to get up without asking,” Eddie declared matter-of-factly.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Richie said the words that would become the philosophy of his entire schooling career. “Who cares? Here, this is for you.” He tossed an envelope onto Eddie’s desk.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“You’re supposed to put them in the mailbox. That’s what Ms. Wilkes said.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“Open it.”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Despite the frantic desire to Not Get In Trouble, Eddie did as he was asked. It was a Return of the Jedi valentine featuring an Ewok and R2D2.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>“I’m R2D2 and you’re the Ewok,” Richie said. Then he put his hands in the pockets of his corduroys, shrugged, and walked away.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>30-odd years later, Eddie felt the same confused, stirred-up mix anticipation he’d felt that day. The arguing was fun in an also-very-stressful-and-frustrating way. But the kindness, the worry, the… whatever the valentine had been, whatever that stupid muffin was…</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was… different. It made him feel different.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That night, the dream of the kissing bridge and the open window recurred. This time, though, Eddie could see Richie turn to face him across the great lawn. Very faintly, Richie’s voice came to him, strained and panicked. “We can still help him, guys! We can still help him!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A mouth full of liquid. Turtle. Relief. And clutched in his hand as the rain started was a construction paper heart with their initials written on it in big, blotty Crayola marker.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Over the course of the next few days, Eddie’s waking hours increased, as did his mobility. “It’s almost like he suffered a traumatic spinal injury,” one doctor said to Myra while the Losers looked on complictly. He was working with a PT on building coordination and balance, and back to the version of himself the Losers knew best--cranky, impatient, and high octane. His vitals and tests continued to improve, though he continued to have “glitches” (one of the residents doctor’s very professional assessments), often during sleeping hours, that dropped his blood pressure and caused spikes of pain and discomfort that couldn’t be traced to any physical phenomenon.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Overall, things were positive… but for the front row seats to the growing Kaspbrak domestic crisis.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Myra, clearly understanding that ejecting the Losers was a no-fly zone, did everything in her power to be accommodating, while also very clearly resenting every breath the five non-Kaspbraks drew within the limits of the hospital room. Eddie seemed to be asserting his independence at every turn. He openly disagreed with Myra’s narratives to the medical professionals (“He’s allergic to gluten, eggs, and soy,” she said; “We </span>
  <em>
    <span>assumed.</span>
  </em>
  <span> I was never tested. My allergist has only ever said nuts and pollen, and my GI said I’d only know if I had more testing,” he said; “I spent six bucks on that stupid muffin, I hope you’re happy,” Richie murmured to Eddie when he knew no one else could hear) and sent her out on numerous errands each day that took her away from the room and the hospital while his friends--clearly equally capable and more in number than his one wife--stayed behind. This quickly frayed her patience and temper further, resulting in escalating arguments that ended in tears.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>During a conference in the visitor area, the Losers agreed, with one abstaining vote, that it was time to make themselves scarce, now fully confident that Eddie’s resurrection was a Good Miracle and not a Bad Portent of More Fucked-Up Shit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie stubbornly folded his arms across his chest and said, “Fuck you quitters. I’m staying.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bev looked at Ben pointedly. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Damn it, Red,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Richie thought. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No secret is safe when sex is involved.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Whatever you need to do, Trashmouth.” Ben said mildly</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Without his usual Tozier flair, he said flatly, “Eddie saved my life. I’m not leaving until he’s standing on his own two feet for longer than two hours at a go. I won’t cause… problems.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As was frequently the case when they were kids, Bill hit the hardest by sounding kind but essentially saying Richie was an idiot who couldn’t be trusted. “You won’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>mean</span>
  </em>
  <span> to cause problems, Richie… but… marriage is a different beast. You’d be better off steering clear of this for a while.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And as was </span>
  <em>
    <span>also</span>
  </em>
  <span> frequently the case when they were kids, Richie itched to push back twice as hard on Saint William of the Holiest Condescension. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah, tell me more about marriage, Bill. I mean, I’m obviously no expert like you, the guy who ditched his wife fucking weeks ago to come here. When’s the last time you called her? </span>
  </em>
  <span>But Richie’s memory of their fight as preteen wimps cowed him and he settled for a petulant huff of breath and a brisk walk away from the group to the cafeteria for chocolate pudding and a truly awful cup of coffee.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>An hour later, Richie returned to Eddie’s room to the end of the announcement that Bev, Ben, Mike, and Bill were going to be heading back to their respective lives (“as far away from Derry as possible” was indirectly implied). Eddie seemed to be taking it well enough when Richie first strolled in, but his reappearance immediately cast a thunderous look of crabbiness over Eddie’s face. “Where have you been? You’re not leaving, are you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"So many questions, Eddie Bear,” Richie replied breezily, his heart suddenly in his throat. Knowing his cool would immediately be ruined by eye contact with Bev (worried, disapproving), Ben (worried, disapproving), Mike (just worried) or Bill (just disapproving), he tousled Eddie’s hair aggressively. “I’m sticking around. Couldn’t leave you if I tried.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Knock it off… stop… Richie, stop, goddamnit!” Eddie tried to put his hair back in place but Richie continued to gently interfere with his efforts.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Be sure to keep us updated, Eds. It sounds like you’re going to get released soon. Myra mentioned the tests are...kinda wrapping up. It’s good to see you up and around more.” Bev slipped her hand into Ben’s, and the Losers shared a silence that may have been comfortable were it not for the continued cloud of “What the fuck happened?” hanging over all their heads.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m looking forward to our next reunion-slash-PTSD support group.” Richie gave the sentence a dry spin that was enough to diffuse the tension and raise a mild chuckle from everyone (except Eddie who continued his grooming efforts, glaring and slapping at Richie’s hand).</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“See, you’re in excellent hands. You won’t even notice we’re gone.” Mike added helpfully.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And if you and Myra want to, you can use the cottage we booked. It’s paid up through the end of the week.” Richie took two steps backwards so that he was out of Eddie’s eyeline and bugged his eyes out at Ben while silently mouthing “Whaaaaaat the fuuuuuuuuuck?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Thanks, Ben. We’ll...we’ll see.” Eddie fidgeted with his water bottle, scratched at the circular bandage where his IV needle had once been. The room pinballed with looks between various Losers of varying degrees of “Oh boy” and “Yikes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As if on cue, Myra reappeared. Not long after, the Losers departed. Even Richie, who may not meet Bill’s bar of acceptable adult social skills, had enough basic common sense to know that Eddie, stinging from their collective departure, would be at his worst and had no intention of being a third wheel in any of the ensuing drama.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Besides he wanted some alone time with the pleasant buzz of his own skin any time he thought about the words </span>
  <em>
    <span>Where have you been you’re not leaving are you?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not this time. Not leaving this time.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you mean you want to stay </span>
  <em>
    <span>here</span>
  </em>
  <span> for a while? Eddie, your </span>
  <em>
    <span>real</span>
  </em>
  <span> doctors are in the city!”</span>
</p>
<p><span>Eddie was brushing his teeth, an effort he made mostly to keep words from spilling, unbidden, out of his mouth: </span><em><span>Ancient evil.</span></em> <em><span>My mother, who you never had a chance to meet when she wasn’t dying, was a piece of fucking work. Stabbed. Killed. Alive again, I guess. Nothing in common but emotional dysfunction and don’t even get me started on our sex life.</span></em><span> “These doctors are fine. I’m doing better. I’m not ready to go. And you’re unhappy here.”</span></p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t tell me how I feel! Eddie, I’m your wife!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I mean, if you want to talk about our sex life, it’s been a year. One. Year. I think about it sometimes, think about asking you, but then your sister calls or you ask me to get you another soda from the fridge or I have to travel for work and can indulge in a two-day bender of pay-per-view porn and technically I guess that’s living but God I’d like</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Richie, pressed up against him, unwashed and idiotic, “There is that better?”</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know. You’re still my wife. I just need… time. Alone.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“But you won’t be </span>
  <em>
    <span>alone</span>
  </em>
  <span>, will you, Eddie? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Will you?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie rinsed, then pulled out a foot of floss and began aggressively winding it around his fingers in a tight garotte. “Richie is probably leaving soon. He said he has stand-up dates booked on the West Coast.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was a tight and cold silence that seemed to last an eternity. “I don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>like</span>
  </em>
  <span> him,” she seethed from the doorway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Jesus, it’s like my mother all over again. Of course you don’t fucking like him. He’s not </span>
  </em>
  <span>you.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m sorry to hear that. He’s my best friend.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How can he be your best friend when </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’ve never talked about him in the 11 years we’ve been married?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He turned to face her, the floss already creating a painful tenderness in his hands. When his eyes met hers, he remembered</span>
  <em>
    <span> I loved her once upon a time… or at least something like it.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Myra, I’m… telling you: go home. I’ll… we’ll… I will call every day. I just need some space and time. I’m having a hard time figuring out my own head right now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eddie…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tired of his own name, tired of her voice, tired of the python grip of need, his tenuous self-control snapped. “A CRAZY GUY STABBED ME, OKAY? STABBED ME! IN MY FACE! I NEED SOME FUCKING </span>
  <em>
    <span>TIME!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Myra began fully wailing. Eddie concluded with a mortified, “It’s not too much to fucking ask.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A moment later, the room’s main door popped open and one of the orderlies, a tall, shambling youth who likely played varsity football for Derry High at some point, kindly but pointedly asked if everything was okay, and Myra took that as her cue to storm from the room.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That night the same kissing bridge/park/window/Richie dream but back in his room, definitely out of place, was the hammock from the hideout. In it was young Richie casually swinging back and forth where Eddie’s childhood bed should have been and in his hand was one of Sonia Kaspbrak’s romance novels, the cover a lurid iridescent purple like the prose inside. Richie opened the book and said, “Listen to this shit, Eds: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Torvald’s tur-gid manhood was glistening. He parted Angelina’s alabaster legs at her sweetness and said, ‘I'm guing tu teke-a yuou, Ungeleena.’ Und vit un urgent thruost, Turfeld intered her. Bork Bork Bork! </span>
  </em>
  <span>More like pork pork pork, am I right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In a blink, 40-year-old Richie, perpetual two-day beard, mussed hair, and crane-like legs, replaced him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What’d you think of that? Did you think that was sexy?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Blearily, Eddie thought, </span>
  <em>
    <span>No, that’s wrong. I said that, not you… right? But yeah. Yeah, I kinda did think it was sexy.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You want to stay here? In Derry?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie watched the nurse take Eddie’s blood pressure. Eddie watched the nurse too, furrowing his brow like he was taking the SATs. “Just until my PT is done. I have four or five more weeks. And the cardiologist is talking with a colleague about Bangor about coming in for a consultation in a few days.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“In Derry?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The nurse briefly shot Richie a narrow-eyed look. To Eddie, she said, “120/80. I’ll be back in an hour or so to take you for your labs.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie gave her departing form a sarcastically cheerful wave. “Don’t be a dick,” Eddie snipped.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Buddy, I’m happy to do whatever you think is best. But I wouldn’t be a friend to either of us if I didn’t express my serious fucking reservations about staying in a town that has tried to kill us several times over. And, most recently, seems to have succeeded. You know, temporarily.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Reservations heard and acknowledged. Now would you please shut the fuck up about it for the remainder of the day?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And what about your job as Chief Neurotic Officer?...”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Risk </span>
  <em>
    <span>analyst.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What will happen if you’re not there to cram statistics into unwilling orifices?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s a law called the Family Medical Leave Act. I can take up to 12 weeks of job-protected leave, which in my case is paid because I have nearly 40 days of sick pay banked alone and…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie began squawking like one of the adults in a Peanuts special.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t bother asking questions if you’re not going to listen, </span>
  <em>
    <span>prick</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“My main question, Wicket W. Warrick, which I’m going to repeat one more time: Derry? I mean, if you’re sure, I’ll try to figure out if we can keep the place Ben rented us. It’s not bad. Only mildly oozing walls and occasional ghostly child voices. Perfect for your remaining convalescence.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie had been multitasking during the semi-argument, continuing a game of Bejeweled 2 in between verbal volleys. It took him a moment or two to register that Eddie had not replied. He looked up from his phone. Eddie’s eyebrows were snapped together, his expression one of guarded worry. “Why did you call me that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know,” Richie retorted. “Because you live on Endor, have spooky brown eyes and, according to your mother, are a bear.” A few seconds ticked by. Richie found himself nose to nose with something he hadn’t thought about in over 30 years, an early memory from homeroom with Eddie. “Because…” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Because I liked Ewoks, even though some of the older kids at school made fun of them. And I liked </span>
  </em>
  <span>you </span>
  <em>
    <span>and your eyes and your pile of dark hair, even though kids at school </span>
  </em>
  <span>definitely </span>
  <em>
    <span>made fun of you. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Because you’re not cool enough to be Han and a little too whiny to be Luke.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie looked at Richie as though he was calculating something and then thought better of it. He looked away, shoving his feet into his slippers and grabbing his robe, and said, “Luke isn’t whiny.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie chuckled. As Eddie made his way to the bathroom, he had a fleeting thought about not being the droids he was looking for, but he couldn’t quite string it into a fully realized joke. They hadn’t been talking about R2D2 or C3PO anyway.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Thinking back to his promise to not cause problems, Richie added, “Do you want me to call Ben? Sort out the cottage thing for you and your wife?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The toilet flushed, the water ran, the door opened. “Myra went back to New York,” the voice of Eddie announced from somewhere out of Richie’s view.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>This is some kind of trap</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Richie thought. “Like, back for a day, or…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No, for good. I’ll finish up PT and follow-ups and stuff and then I’ll… go back home. I’ll see her there.” Eddie said the last part of the sentence like he was workshopping it, like he wasn’t sure if it was a concept he was committed to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie found himself at a loss for words for the first time all day. “Okay. Well. So should I call Ben to sort out the cottage for... us?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, I’m kind of busy relearning how to walk as I recover from not being alive, so yeah, that’d be </span>
  <em>
    <span>great </span>
  </em>
  <span>if you could make </span>
  <em>
    <span>one </span>
  </em>
  <span>phone call. If you can handle it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jesus,</span>
  </em>
  <span> do I have to do everything around here?” Though the tone was classic Eddie, tightly wound and blistering, Richie detected a hint of nervousness in his friend’s voice.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie resumed his game of Bejeweled 2 and allowed himself a very brief, very miniscule smile. “Yeah, yeah, let me pass this level and I’ll see what I can manage.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Surprise of surprises, the riverside cottage was available for another month. “Oh, really? Have the Travelocity reviews finally caught up with Derry?” Richie said to Ben. “‘I arrived to this quaint Maine town only to find it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>a convenient distance from Acadia and also has a gory generations-long history of child murder. The new coffee shop in town is nice, though.” Richie </span>
  <em>
    <span>had </span>
  </em>
  <span>actually warmed to the coffee shop. He was there now, as a matter of fact: it provided him with non-poisonous coffee (unlike the hospital) and a peaceful place to make phone calls while Eddie was shuttled between specialists and physical therapy or napping--like this call to Ben, or the one yesterday to his management, where he heavy-handedly hinted that he was in an inpatient addiction program. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ben acted as an impromptu helpdesk as Richie set up his own VRBO account and completed his reservation for the cottage. After the last checkbox was clicked and the deposit was submitted, Ben said, “Richie, are you sure this is a good idea?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Which part concerns you, Haystack? I’d think carrying a torch for someone over the decades would resonate with you.” Richie casually threw away the sentence, telling Ben in the most passive way: </span>
  <em>
    <span>I know Bev told you I’m in love with Eddie; now we can move forward.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ben sighed, but he had the hint of a smile in his voice. “I’m not trying to give you a hard time. I’m just… worried. Things are already...challenging.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, you mean with our supernaturally haunted childhoods and the horrible trauma we all experienced?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ben was smiling for sure now. “Yeah, something like that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, don’t worry your pretty pretty </span>
  <em>
    <span>pretty</span>
  </em>
  <span> head about it, young man. I’m here to take care of Eddie and make sure he ends up back in New York with his loving wife. The worst is behind us all now. Except Eddie. Who will be going back to his wife.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Rich…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Dude, give me a break. He rose from the dead. He needs help. Let me have four weeks with him and then we’ll go back to our previously scheduled once-every-two-decades friendship.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Ben sighed. Richie imagined he was shaking his head to indicate to Bev that his efforts to discourage the Cottage Plan were not successful. “Be careful, would you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie sighed in exasperation. First Mike, now Ben full of concern and advice about caution. “What’s the worst that can happen, Ben? Pretty sure nothing can top having Eddie’s insides literally explode on my face. Regular old disappointed lovesickness will be a walk in the park after that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The conversation petered out with lukewarm goodbyes said by both parties. Richie hung up and continued working on the grocery list he was putting together with the Google search string “no soy no gluten no eggs nut allergy and also he’s a massive fucking baby.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>While at the Bangor Target buying plain yogurt, cereal, and bags of frozen stir fry veggies--the one lunch/dinner meal Richie was both relatively confident in preparing and certain would meet Eddie’s byzantine dietary standards--it dawned on him that he could take this opportunity to expand his own wardrobe and stop washing his two remaining sets of clothes every other day. Faced with a giant display of graphic tees, Richie indiscriminately grabbed up anything that was themed to appeal to former 1980s dorkuses like him: one with a diagram of the Millennium Falcon; one scrawled with the Purple Rain logo; one with the Atari logo; and, because he felt whimsical for half a second, a powder blue number with Snoopy as Joe Cool.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The store’s speakers gently wafted a familiar tune to him as he picked out a rotation of hoodies to partner with the tees. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh thinkin’ about all our younger years/There was only you and me/We were young and wild and free.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Richie exhaled through his teeth. “This song </span>
  <em>
    <span>sucks,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” he said to a red hoodie before he threw it in the cart. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Now nothin’ can take you away from me/We’ve been down that road before/But that’s over now/You keep me comin’ back for more.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He moved on to the athletic wear, which he halfheartedly promised himself he would only wear around the cottage and not to the coffee shop or the hospital, and selected black and gray track pants, along with some basketball shorts. He idly wondered if Ben had a soft spot for Bryan Adams during his Bev-crushing, mixtape-making years as the overproduced sound of the chorus continued.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By the time he’d located the shelves of jeans, Richie was very quietly singing the lyrics he remembered as he chucked identical pairs of dark straight legs into the child seat.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah, nothing can change what you mean to me/There’s lots that I can say/But just hold me now</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Bryan Adams had a good point. Richie didn’t think Ben could argue with that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Richie doubled back to electronics and picked up a few Bluetooth speakers. Might as well recreate the fort’s boombox while he was at it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After discharge orders were delivered--no strenuous exercise for the next 4 weeks, though walking for 30-60 minutes each day was encouraged, no lifting over 10 lbs, take blood pressure twice a day, fill prescriptions for anti-anxiety meds, a low-dose med that was for “neuropathic pain management,” and, of course, a new inhaler--Eddie was officially wheeled to the exit. He stood for a moment where the sidewalk met the half-circle drive in front of the hospital. He felt Richie’s forearm brush his. Afraid to look at him, Eddie kept his eyes on the parking lot in the middle distance. “I don’t know why I feel so nervous all of a sudden,” he said.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think you’re allowed, pal. It hasn’t been the best couple of weeks.” Richie slipped his arm around Eddie’s shoulders and squeezed briefly before dropping his arm back down to his side. Eddie found himself wishing it was still age-appropriate to express emotion by punching or elbowing or kicking or shoving. Instead he was stuck swimming in an ambiguous mishmash of fear and exhilaration.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Eddie looked out to the west, which seemed to be filled with ominous heaped clouds. “Henry Bowers is really dead, right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh yeah,” Richie replied, his flat tone reminding Eddie </span>
  <em>
    <span>Right, Richie did that, he killed Henry.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“And It?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Eds, do you… I can take you back to New York. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Today</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Just say the word and you don’t have to spend another minute here.” Richie’s quiet delivery finally compelled Eddie to look away from the cars and into his friend’s face. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The genuine concern nearly flattened him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Concern and something else that skipped like a stone across Richie’s eyes. It was the last part</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Here this is for you</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I’d give anything</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>that compelled Eddie forward. “No, I’m ready.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And typical of Derry, no sooner had the words left Eddie’s mouth than a low, ominous rumble of thunder sounded in the distance.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Those vintage RotJ Valentines really meet at the intersection of Cute and Spooky</p>
<p>There's a Swedish Chef translator if you ever need one at https://funtranslations.com/chef</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Take Me As I Am</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A cozy little cottage, grocery shopping, bickering, a panic attack, and Eddie starts to put pieces together, figuratively and literally. All scored by Bryan Adams, Heart, and Cyndi Lauper.</p><p>Cameo by Bev and Stephen King (you'll recognize him when you see him)</p><p>CW: aforementioned panic attack</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Once inside the cottage, Richie acted as tour guide. “Here’s the kitchen, here’s the living room, and the master bedroom is that door right there. I figured that’s best for you since it has a connected bathroom. Also Ben and Bev definitely did it a bunch of times in the bed, and I don’t want to go to sleep thinking about that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Gross, man.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not my fault. I definitely heard rhythmic squeaking on more than one occasion. I’m just reporting the news.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie followed Eddie through the open door, and Eddie said, “You changed the sheets, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorta. Does Febrezing count?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rich.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure the wet spot is dry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie rolled his eyes in an epic way that nearly made Richie remind him he wasn’t supposed to be strenuously exercising. “Dude, you are fucking repulsive.” He pushed past Richie, bumping his shoulder hard enough to jostle him, on his way out the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Back in the kitchen, Eddie made a methodical circuit through every cabinet and then stood in front of the open fridge for a while. Richie hung back in the living room, watching it play out, his mind choosing this unfortunate time to remind him of how endearing Eddie’s shtick was sometimes. A more lizardy part of his brain was also taking note of the way his biceps filled out his heathered brown tee shirt as he stretched away from the fridge door, the way the waist of his jeans slipped low enough to show a hint of an elastic band emblazoned with the Jockey logo.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Okay, horndog, enough, stop there, Day 1 of this arrangement isn’t even over yet. Ben and Mike will be right about every doubt they had.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie turned around as Richie was reorganizing his thoughts. He must have looked guilty because Eddie asked, “What’s your problem?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Other than you killing the earth by letting the fridge door hang open for an hour while you think of things to complain about? Nothing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not thinking of things to complain about. Give me a fucking break.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie raised his eyebrows high. “Mm-hmm.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Closing the fridge door with a forced lack of concern, Eddie said, “Turkey bacon has more nitrates and nitrites than pork bacon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And if I knew what the hell any of that shit was, I’m sure that bit of trivia would have blown my hair back. No one is going to </span>
  <em>
    <span>make</span>
  </em>
  <span> you eat that bacon. As you probably saw, I bought you a gunny-sack of muesli and some berries at a stand in town, which you can power-wash or bleach or whatever. I read some article in an in-flight magazine that raspberries and blackberries have cancer-fighting shit in them. If you can’t trust </span>
  <em>
    <span>American Way</span>
  </em>
  <span>, who can you trust?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stood locked in their mock High Noon showdown positions for a moment or two until Eddie walked towards the stairs. “What’s in the rest of this place?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie followed him to the lower level and pointed out the area under the stairs that had the washer and dryer and water heater, then showed him the half bath, the sitting area that was clearly meant to be for kids, piled as it was with banged-up board games and puzzles and an assortment of family-friendly DVDs in the entertainment center storage unit. They toured the other two bedrooms, including the one Richie had claimed as his own weeks ago.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie folded his arms at the unmade bed covered with the day’s clothing purchases. “You’ve been busy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, Eddie, I went to the mall with my friends. After we were done at Orange Julius and Spencer’s Gifts, I bought a bunch of food that only you could find fault with, then I bought myself some clothes so that I can go two weeks without doing laundry like a normal person.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie kept looking at the bed and Richie suddenly became hypersensitive, in the most adolescent way, to the way the sheets were stirred and the discarded clothes, including a few pairs of boxer briefs indelicately shed where he stood, then kicked aside. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eddie’s in my room where I take my clothes off,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he thought, mirroring similar thoughts he had at age 13. There was minimal relief in the fact that, thus far, Richie hadn’t jacked off here, because he still had the memories of how that was </span>
  <em>
    <span>very </span>
  </em>
  <span>not the case in his childhood bedroom. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m warning you, don’t touch that sock</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he remembered telling Eddie one night as he tried to clear a chair of detritus. Eddie had shrieked and thrown it across the room. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jesus Christ, you animal, what’s wrong with you?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Your mom believes in the pull-out method, Eds, it’s not my choice.</span>
  </em>
  <span> The joke elicited another outraged shriek and an expletive-laden diatribe, which distracted Richie from the mortifying memory that the particular blue-and-red banded number Eddie had thrown was the result of having </span>
  <em>
    <span>seen </span>
  </em>
  <span>Eddie in his tighy whities. </span>
</p><p><span>Not long after that, Pennywise had called to Richie in Eddie’s voice in the Neibolt Street house. </span><em><span>What a fucking metaphor</span></em><span>,</span> <span>Richie thought. </span><em><span>Bill should take pointers from that guy.</span></em></p><p>
  <span>Rain began to spatter against the window and the rumble of thunder they’d heard an hour earlier was now closer and more insistent. Eddie looked out and sighed. “Looks like the storm is here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Metaphor the second,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Richie thought to himself, letting his eyes wander to Eddie’s biceps and waist again. “Sure is,” he agreed. “Let’s make some dinner.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After dinner was over, it was clear to Eddie he wasn’t the only one wound up about the thunderstorm. It had started out gentle enough but now seemed to be leaning towards nerve-wracking gusts of wind and claps of thunder that shook the windows. Richie would sit down for a minute or two, then rise to look out the patio doors that led to the deck facing the river. The TV was on, and the station’s meteorologist became a more constant presence, delivering updates about the flash flood and severe thunderstorm warnings. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You shouldn’t stand near windows. We learned that in, like, fourth grade.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite Eddie’s words, Richie remained where he was, looking out at the gentle slope of the yard. “The smaller trees are really taking a beating. And there’s already a bunch of leaves and shit snapped off. I wonder how high the river is right now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you get away from the patio door please?” Eddie hated the sound of his voice, nervous and strained with urgency. It reminded him of the events leading up to his brief death. Looking at Richie so close to the doors was like a fresh new plate of fortune cookies full of grotesque nightmares. </span>
  <em>
    <span>The glass will explode, a shard will slash his carotid artery, and he’ll bleed out here in the living room of this quaint vacation home, all because he doesn’t remember the storm safety tips we learned from G.I. Joe PSAs.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie looked over his shoulder, his eyes glazed over with distraction. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Could you please sit down over here? You’re making me crazy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not like I’m standing outside. I’m not Helen Hunt’s dad in </span>
  <em>
    <span>Twister.</span>
  </em>
  <span> I’m safe.” Richie shot another look over his shoulder, pointed and calm. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>We’re</span>
  </em>
  <span> safe.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie felt a knot of disbelief continue to swell in his throat. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That’s the kind of thing one of us would say and then some weird horror pops up, like a severed head or a geyser of blood.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “I never saw </span>
  <em>
    <span>Twister.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really? I wish I could say the same. I think I saw it four times that summer.” Richie took a step or two backward but remained standing, squared to the glass doors. “What were you doing at age 20, Eds? Making all the girls crazy with your Izod polos and your calculator watch?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie looked at the statue stillness of Richie’s frame, the tense way he was hugging his elbows, his broad shoulders tugged in and up towards his ears. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He’s trying to </span>
  </em>
  <span>protect </span>
  <em>
    <span>me. He’s trying to play it cool for me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>For me</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It took a concentrated effort to blow the dust off those memories. “I was at NYU with a full credit load. In the library nearly every night. Then I’d come back to Maine on the weekends and… I don’t know, I don’t remember a lot about that other than it sucked.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The grinding buzz of another weather alert sounded on the tv and made them both jump out of their skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Holy shit,” Eddie gasped.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck me,” Richie bleated. It was enough to shake him from his vigilance, and he dropped down into the corner of the sectional, far enough away from Eddie’s position on the chaise that even if Richie stretched out his legs, they wouldn’t touch unless one of them made an effort.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Why are you thinking about touching him, Eddie?</span>
  </em>
  <span> A voice suspiciously like Myra’s asked. Eddie didn’t really have a good answer, for her or for himself, so he returned to watching the meterologist review the radar.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A kinder, softer voice, one that sounded like Bev, chimed in. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s not a bad thing to touch someone, Eds.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He thought of Richie’s arm resting on his shoulders, solid and comforting and too brief. He thought again about Richie draping over him that first day in the hospital, then the next day in an attempt to annoy him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned so that his own legs extended towards Richie rather than down the chaise. “I fucking hate thunderstorms. I especially hate this thunderstorm.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie looked away from the storm and took in Eddie’s new position on the couch. He smiled ruefully, then spun so that his legs were running parallel to Eddie’s, their calves barely touching. “Me too, buddy. Me too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That night, after weeks of drugged, blacked-out sleep, Richie dreamt.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was back in Bassey Park. The Bunyan statue was in place, inanimate and fang-free. In his hand was a basket full of blackberries. Sitting on a park bench not far away was Eddie, reading a textbook with a cover like an old ledger. He was in a salmon-colored polo and dark slacks, legs casually crossed at the ankles. His brow was furrowed in concentration, much as it had been every time a nurse took his blood pressure… but especially the day Richie found out Myra had left Derry and gone home to Queens.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A turtle toddled along in the grass between them. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That seems familiar</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Richie thought, though he was eventually distracted by the line of Eddie’s throat in the late summer sun. As if reading his mind, Eddie looked up from his book, gaze unwavering. “Those for me, Rich?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Of course, who else would want this stupid gob of non-food</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie gave his head a sharp nod to beckon Richie. “Why don’t you have a seat?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sun was almost too warm. Richie felt sweat prickling along his hairline. He set the basket down between them and sat on the bench, trying to keep his eyes both away from Eddie and his goddamn biceps and throat but also away from the statue. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It knows, Eddie. It knows how I feel.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He saw the shuffling of the turtle, but it was faint and ghostly, then gone altogether.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie picked up the basket and set it down on the grass. Then he casually tapped Richie’s shin once, twice with his ankle. Then pressed his ankle to Richie’s calf and slowly, </span>
  <em>
    <span>slowly</span>
  </em>
  <span> ran it up to his knee.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie felt his mouth go dry and his armpits dampen.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh no</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>When he awoke, he saw his and Eddie’s legs in a tangle. Eddie was asleep, arms crossed against his chest, his head at what looked like an uncomfortable angle, cheek pressed into the back of the sofa.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And, much to Richie’s dismay, the second sight was a noticeable tenting effect in the front of his new athleisure pants. “Come on, man, </span>
  <em>
    <span>seriously?</span>
  </em>
  <span>” he whispered in the general direction of his crotch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a few moments of clearing his mind, then thinking </span>
  <em>
    <span>Be careful</span>
  </em>
  <span> in Ben’s voice approximately 100 times, Richie was able to stand boner-free. Draping a throw over Eddie, he retreated to his room in the basement, where sleep was elusive. It didn’t arrive until he finally acquiesced to his baser urges, popped into the bathroom, grabbed a sample-sized bottle of hand lotion, and despoiled himself (and, by extension, the room) with almost brutal efficiency.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And though he knew he should feel some kind of shame, Richie felt better than he had in days.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie awoke mostly refreshed but with the dull ache that accompanied sleeping on a couch with no pillow. He picked up his watch off the side table and exhaled with relief--it was nearly 5:30. He’d slept seven hours without the help of a Lunestra. He couldn’t remember the last time that had happened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He sat up and stretched, scratched at the place in his scalp where the couch had created a fissure in his hair. He looked around the living room. The TV was off. No Richie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Out loud, he said, “He’s here. He’s downstairs.” Talking to himself as a self-soothing strategy was not a new development, but the frequency was beginning to make him nervous.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a shower, a close shave, and his first time with his Kiehl’s cream wax in over a week--it was good to have his part firmly in place, order restored to his grooming routine at last, if not his life--he ventured back out to the kitchen, filled the red tea kettle with water, and put it on to boil.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No longer able to resist, he walked down a few steps and listened intently. Richie’s snoring was audible--that was a new development, or at least Eddie did not recall Richie snoring in his youth--and judging by the clarity of the sound, he’d left his door open. Some other sound was mingling with Richie. It took Eddie a few moments to place it and said, louder than he intended, “Is that...</span>
  <em>
    <span>Bryan Adams?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was Bryan Adams. The words were familiar but the chorus wasn’t coming to mind: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Now who can you turn to/When it’s all black and white/And the winners are losers/You see it every night</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Bryan helped.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I need somebody/somebody like you</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, wow,” Eddie muttered. That was enough to drive him back up the stairs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quickly switching off the burner as the kettle started to whistle, he distributed the water between a bowl of muesli--”How does he </span>
  <em>
    <span>remember</span>
  </em>
  <span> this shit?” Eddie asked the portrait of Bob on the bag; he hadn’t eaten muesli since living in his mother’s house 20-odd years ago-- and poured the rest into a mug prepped with a bag of calming tea he’d found in the back of one cabinet. He planned to take his daily dose of paroxetine once the tea had cooled. Why not greet the day with as much irony as possible?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He picked up his phone from the coffee table, exploring the idea of calling Myra this early in the morning when the screen lit up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>BEV</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Creepy,” he said before picking up. “Hello?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good morning, sunshine. How was your first night of freedom?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Walking away from the living room and towards the patio door to survey the results of the storm, Eddie said, “It was… fine. A little nerve-wracking. A big storm rolled through.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How?” Eddie felt he wasn't going to like the answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I dreamt about it. About the two of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The Deadlights.</span>
  </em>
  <span> God, was Richie going to have this power too? At least Eddie could trust Bev to use it gently and not annoy him with visions from The Great Beyond.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And then I checked The Weather Channel. The good news,” she continued, as though Eddie had said it out loud, “is now that It is dead, things I see are more… peaceful. Domestic even.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie popped the patio door open and walked outside onto the deck. The air was fresh and green-smelling, the sky brightening through a film of clouds. “Richie made dinner last night. Some kind of stir fry. Can you believe it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her musical laughter melded with the birdsong in the yard. “No! No, I cannot. How was it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not bad. Good, actually. Don’t tell him. He’s already acting like he’s in the running for a Nobel Prize.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can count on me.” Then “So… Myra’s not there, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie thought about Bev’s face long ago, her steady gaze on him in the pharmacy as they scrambled to get supplies for Ben. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Here’s someone who knows how to get shit done. </span>
  </em>
  <span>From the first moments he’d known her, Bev had inspired immediate trust, in part because she was so absolutely no-bullshit about everything.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So he told her the whole truth he’d been struggling with for days. “Yeah, she’s back home. I… I don’t know how to talk to her about what happened. I don’t know if I </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to talk to her about what happened. And I think… being with her, talking to her, it felt normal for a long time, normal compared to how I grew up. And now it feels like... remembering what normal was, it seems like maybe that’s not necessarily a good thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I get it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“More than you possibly realize. It’s hard to see a path forward when someone in your life is everything you tried to leave behind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie pinched the bridge of his nose and inhaled deeply. It was too early in the day for crying while on the phone, something he’d never done in the course of his adult life. “I wish you were here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The sound of her sigh reminded him of her palm curved against his face. “I’m a phone call away. And we’re not too far if you really need us. Though I’d really prefer it if you’d have stayed in Bangor. Or Portland. And you’ll figure things out about Myra. You have time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I appreciate your faith in me. I know it seems like I should have some perspective on this, given recent events, but… it seems like it’s, like, fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>insurmountable </span>
  </em>
  <span>at present.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In the interest of full disclosure, Eds, I’m having divorce papers delivered to Tom while I’m thousands of miles away and have blocked his number. It might be self-serving to say this, but sometimes it’s okay to take the indirect route. Not everything has to be an epic battle.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The words relieved some of the burdens on his conscience. He exhaled. “Thanks, Bev.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In the meantime, you have Richie...with you.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Weird place to pause.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “And apparently, he cooks. That’s useful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah.” The line went did-the-tower-drop silent for a moment or two. “Bev?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He paused, the unformed sentences about the series of increasingly intense memories and dreams about Richie fading into silence before they escaped his lips. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Immediate trust is one thing, but…</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Thanks for helping me. After Bowers and… at Neibolt.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know that you owe me thanks for that last part. Turns out it only wounds monsters. False advertising.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, thanks anyway. Um, my breakfast is getting cold, so… I better go. Say hi to Ben for me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will. Eds?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He braced himself. “Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not a bad thing… it’s okay to call. Whenever.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s not a bad thing to be touched, Eds</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks, Bev. Thanks.” He hung up and returned to the house.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After he took his paroxetine with a mouthful of tea--which was purportedly honey lavender, but tasted like potpourri soup--he switched on the radio mounted near the stove hood. He turned the dial to a station he recalled was Bangor’s sound of the ‘80s, ‘90s, and today. While he stirred his muesli back to life from its semi-congealed state, the song playing seeped into his consciousness.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I can’t tell you what you’re feeling inside/</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Something’s missing and you got to look back on your life/</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You know something it just ain’t right</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>With more force than was strictly necessary, Eddie switched the radio off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bedside clock said 7:30 when Richie was finally able to bring it into focus. He groaned and stretched, then realized he heard the dulcet tones of Bryan Adams singing him into a new day.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah, I would fight for you/</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’d lie for you/</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Walk the wire for you, yeah/</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’d die for you</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He groaned and jabbed at his phone until the track paused. “Pathetic. You should be ashamed of yourself.” Waking up to the theme song from </span>
  <em>
    <span>Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves</span>
  </em>
  <span> was a fitting punishment for jacking yourself off to the sounds of Bryan Adams and thoughts about your friend sleeping less than 10 yards from you.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He straggled into the downstairs bathroom with a towel and washcloth, took a brutally hot shower, brushed his teeth and tried to finger-comb his hair into some semblance of order. He looked in the mirror. “Okay, today is a new day. Commit yourself to not being a total disaster of a person. I believe in you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He bounded up the stairs to find Eddie sitting at the kitchen island, looking at his phone. He was in a gray hoodie, black v-neck tee, and black track pants. It looked like if someone were to run their thumb across Eddie’s cheek, the surface of his skin would squeak like a newly washed mirror.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie wondered if it’d be suspicious if he ran back downstairs for, oh, five minutes or so. “Hey,” he said, immediately heading for the Keurig pods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” Eddie responded. “Bev says hi.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wow, you two are early birds. What’d she have to say for herself?” Selecting a Pangborn for Sheriff mug and jamming down the machine’s lever, he turned and found Eddie was looking at him, the furrow in his brow acting like a flashing red warning light. “Oh, Christ… what now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She knew about the storm. She dreamt about us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The coffee spattered into the mug; Richie thought about sticking his head under the spigot. “One of Bev’s usual fun dreams where we’re all committing hari-kiri, or something even better?” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Careful, pal, you’d better hope she didn’t tune in from, oh, 12:17 to 12:19 AM last night.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing bad. Just… regular weird, I guess. I had just picked up my phone for the first time this morning and… there she was.” Eddie squinted at Richie. “They have </span>
  <em>
    <span>Street Fighter</span>
  </em>
  <span> shirts at Target?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie looked down at his chest. Oh, yeah, that was a find. “Pretty boss, huh? Back to Bev, though. She have anything else to say?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Annoyance pulled at Eddie’s mouth. “What are you expecting, an epic poem or something? She was just checking in on us. We’re fine. Did you know this place has a grill?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>This is some Alice in Wonderland styled curiouser and curiouser type bullshit,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Richie thought to himself. But he let Eddie run his obvious verbal misdirection. “Oh, yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. Do you know how to grill?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m about to pour half a box of Honey Smacks into a mixing bowl, if that answers your question. What about you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, but I’ve been watching tutorials for the last hour or so. It doesn’t look that complicated.” Richie sat across from him at the island, coffee and aforementioned mixing bowl full of Honey Smacks. “Oh, you weren’t kidding.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve been released from the hospital one whole day and you’re already looking for a new hobby? If you don’t mind my saying so, that’s adorable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie looked down at his phone. The bridge of his nose was pink. “Fuck off.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie dropped his spoon into the bowl--the handle disappeared into the quicksand-like mash of Smacks and milk--and leaned forward to pinch his unscarred cheek. “Holy shit, you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>blushing</span>
  </em>
  <span>. You’re so fucking cute it’s unreal.” The pink had spread and was now washing his cheeks and the tips of his ears a similar hue. Eddie swatted Richie’s hand away, but not before Richie was able to brush his fingertips against the tendons in Eddie’s neck. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Squirrel that away for later, you fucking pervert, you couldn’t even go 10 minutes.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Tell me more about how you’re going to harness fire, Edward. That’s some very manly shit, by the way. Color me impressed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Leave me alone. Eat your bucket of…” Eddie looked over at the bowl and seemed to fight his gag reflex, “...Corn Syrup Blobs that have already dissolved into some kind of slurry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve seen that horse feed you eat, and it looks fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>identical</span>
  </em>
  <span> to this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell that to your diseased molars and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jesus Christ almighty, Richie.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Eddie’s outburst was due to Richie rifling around in the center of the bowl to find his missing spoon. Grabbing his phone and his mug, Eddie stormed away from the kitchen into the master bedroom, muttering all the way, and closing the door behind him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shouting after him, Richie said, “What kind of meat do you want me to pick up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>From behind the closed door, Eddie replied “Steaks.” The tone was such a perfect blend of irritation and contriteness, Richie wanted to kick the door in and kiss him right on the mouth. He settled for pretty much fellating the sugary spoon he’d recovered as he made his way to the deck to look at the grill.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie was back to reading tab after tab full of grilling content--blog entries, articles, a mammoth </span>
  <em>
    <span>America’s Test Kitchen</span>
  </em>
  <span> treatise that he’d paid for by subscribing to </span>
  <em>
    <span>Cook’s Country</span>
  </em>
  <span> for a year--when Richie pounded on the closed door. “Come on in,” he said, forgetting he was supposed to be irritated about Richie’s terrible table manners and handsy bullshit. Pinching his cheek like Eddie was his nephew, for fuck’s sake. He’d thought about it at least 25 times in the last two hours, feeling various degrees of agitation about it, to the point where he briefly considered taking another shower.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to the store now.” Richie said. “Steaks and what else?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know… baking potatoes. Some kind of vegetable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie turns his palms up, an impatient gleam in his eyes. “It’s like we weren’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>just</span>
  </em>
  <span> at the kitchen island two hours ago, you dumbshit… ‘Some kind of vegetable?’ I’ll end up walking back here with a head of iceberg lettuce, and you’ll be pissed.” Richie gave him a once-over; Eddie could practically hear his mind switching tracks. “Do you feel okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What? Yes. Why?” It came out of his mouth so fast it was like a compound word: </span>
  <em>
    <span>whatyeswhy</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re just… you look tired. Are you drinking water like that one doctor told you to?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What ‘one doctor’?” Eddie kept his tone even, but he was laughing like crazy on the inside. Leave it to Richie to have retained zero details about any of the people he’d met over the past week at all. They were all one big collective: A Doctor, The Doctor, Doctors.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie walked into the room towards him, and for a second, Eddie placed his hand on his hoodie zipper, as though hiking it all the way to his throat would be some kind of forcefield. Embarrassed by his own reaction, he stuck his hand into the pocket of his hoodie. “The one… ‘bout this tall,” Richie waved his hand around to indicate a human who was somewhere between 4’6” and 6’0, “and had the clipboard with the Ariel and Belle stickers on it.” He sat down on the bed next to him and, without seeking permission, put the back of his hand against Eddie’s forehead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dr. Entragian.” Eddie said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You feel warm. Did you take your blood pressure yet?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie watched the pulse in Richie’s throat. “Rainbow chard.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie screwed up his face, hand still on Eddie’s forehead. “Are you having a fucking stroke? I’m asking you about your blood pressure, not our shopping list.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, it’s 120/80. It’s stable. I’m fine. I’m still recovering from sleeping on the couch with no pillow. When my PT asks me what set me back a week, I’m going to let her know it’s because my roommate left me to sleep with my neck at a 45-degree angle.” Eddie’s eyes met Richie’s and a rush of thoughts bombarded him all at once: Why was Richie so close? Why did Richie smell like deodorant and coffee? Why was his mouth dry and throat tight? Was he having an allergic reaction? If Bev’s psychically shared theory that it wasn’t so bad to touch someone or have someone touch you was true, why was this making him feel like he should be back in the hospital on a morphine drip? “Did you wash your hand after submerging it in milk?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nope.” To punctuate the statement, he clapped it to Eddie’s cheek, thumb back behind his ear. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Roomie.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” When Eddie inhaled, he got a faint whiff of dairy and sugar. “Drink some water would you? Take a break from reading everything the Internet has to offer about grilling.” Richie stood. Eddie took note of the reluctance that played across his face. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He doesn’t want to leave. Even for 10 minutes. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“Okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Okay</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Stop badgering me, for fuck’s sake. Go to the store.” Eddie picked up his phone and reopened his browser. “Richie?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, Master?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Were you listening to </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bryan Adams</span>
  </em>
  <span> last night?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was Richie’s turn to look annoyed. “Rainbow chard… what is that shit? Is it lettuce?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not an answer, dickwad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m leaving.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wait. Richie.” Richie turned on his heel just beyond the bedroom door. “I also need a Vidalia onion and some button mushrooms. And I… need… somebody.” Eddie smirked triumphantly. “Somebody like </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whirling on his heels, a shoulder-high tersely extended middle finder was Richie’s reply.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie discovered going out for groceries for the second time in as many days was the first time he’d been able to clear his mind of lustful thoughts… mostly because it took every bit of his concentration to figure out what he was doing every solitary moment he was in a store looking for something specific and not arbitrarily throwing whatever struck his fancy into a cart. On the surface, it seemed like a relatively straightforward set of orders. But once he was standing in produce, Richie discovered it was like one of those deceptive two-problem math homework assignments that required an hour of work.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie had said Vidalia onion. But Richie paced the onion selection and saw only red, white, yellow, and sweet. He had to Google to discover that a Vidalia was a sweet onion. Next up were the mushrooms, and he was flummoxed by the puzzle of whether or not Eddie would want whole mushrooms or sliced mushrooms. He refused to open himself to ridicule by asking, so he picked sliced, assuming that because they were more expensive and less work, they were the right answer. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His phone buzzed.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>I also need:</em>
</p><p>
  <em>1) Dark brown sugar</em>
</p><p>
  <em>2) Smoked paprika</em>
</p><p>
  <em>3) Cumin</em>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the shit?” Richie said to his phone, earning a wry smirk from a man pushing a cart past him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The phone buzzed again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>4) Also, oregano - there was some </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>in the cabinet but it expired in 2009.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Richie texted back:</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Nice numbered list, numbnuts</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The phone buzzed </span>
  <em>
    <span>again</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>5) And ice cream sandwiches</span>
    <span> - </span>
    <span>not Neapolitan or chocolate-chocolate</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Regular ones</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He walked to the end of the aisle and waited for the misters to stop before he grabbed Swiss chard (not rainbow chard-- it had “chard” in its name, it looked like spinach, and that shit was all the same) and threw it into a plastic bag.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then he stopped to text back:</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>It’s a tragedy that you escaped death</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>so many times only to end up</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>bludgeoned by my phone</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>when I get back</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eddie’s response was:</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Haha</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Numbered lists via text. Jesus.” Then Richie stood by the potatoes and read the results from his Google string “what does brown sugar have to do with steaks?” </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Do you want mushrooms whole or sliced?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Whatever you’ve already picked out</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>is fine</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>They’re Neapolitan, does that matter?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After two minutes had passed, Richie determined Eddie’s silence was intentional and moved on to selecting baking potatoes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He ended up paralyzed again at the butcher’s counter. He knew he’d eaten steaks over the years but for some reason, the various cuts were baffling. A grizzled old man impatiently said, “Can I help you, son?” after he entered minute two of pacing the case.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I need two steaks. For grilling.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The old man harrumphed and asked, “How much you wanna spend?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally a question Richie was comfortable answering: “The most… and whatever you think is best.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Two grass-fed ribeyes were thrown onto plastic-lined wax paper, wrapped, priced, and unceremoniously thrust into his hands.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While Richie prowled the baking aisle--”How can there be this many kinds of sugar?” he murmured helplessly--he also thought about Eddie, which turned into worrying about Eddie. He was starting to feel tragically unprepared for the task of ensuring Eddie’s continued safety and health. While Richie wanted Eddie to be back to his normal self… what did that mean? He’d only known adult-aged Eddie for a few days, and now he was supposed to be his home health aide. For example, this grilling thing seemed pretty in-character; it was standard Eddie to tenaciously pursue an idea and hound-dog after it, and himself, until his nerves were frayed. But it seemed like it was counter to resting and not lifting and all those other things he’d been directed before being wheeled out the front door of the hospital.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie didn’t feel like he’d ever be capable of telling another adult “time to go to bed” or “don’t sleep on the couch” or “stop winding yourself up looking at your phone for two hours.” It was hard enough to remember and hassle Eddie about the water thing. Maybe Eddie would call Myra. Maybe Eddie </span>
  <em>
    <span>should</span>
  </em>
  <span> call Myra. Maybe she was better at this sort of thing, Richie thought morosely. All the fragments of the past and the fever dream of the present were stirring all sorts of strong emotions, but it was illogical and likely dangerous to keep playing like they were grown-up version of the 13-year-old kids they’d been, hanging out in a fancier version of their clubhouse.</span>
</p><p><span>Fucking </span><em><span>ice cream sandwiches</span></em><span>.</span> <span>And a little over a week ago, Eddie was dead and buried under tons of rubble. Finally selecting a bag of dark brown sugar, Richie asked it, “What the fuck do I think I’m doing?”</span></p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Richie returned to the cottage, he discovered Eddie had used his time by prepping a work station on the kitchen island. It looked as if he’d used a straight-edge to organize everything and resembled a cooking demo he’d seen once on the set of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Good Morning America.</span>
  </em>
  <span> The radio was playing low in the background--if Richie’s memory served him, the band was Blue Oyster Cult, the one song that had been popular before he and Eddie were out of short pants--and Eddie had shed his hoodie and was leaning forward against the counter as though restraining himself from pouncing.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I should’ve bought him an apron</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Richie thought to himself. He thrust the bags at Eddie, who immediately set to unpacking and organizing. “I hope I got everything for your dry rub, and I respect you didn’t tell me what all that shit was for in the hopes I wouldn’t make twenty monkey-spanking jokes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie removed the box of ice cream sandwiches and showed it to Richie. The box had been inelegantly opened at the wrong end. “Did a couple of raccoons follow you home?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You could say that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie’s furrow appeared instantaneously. “It says ‘open here.’ In English.” He pointed for emphasis to the pristine top, which included an easy-close tab. “And from the looks of it, you made the effort open the wrong end with a rusty fucking chainsaw.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re going to throw them into the freezer anyway…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not the point. You read English, right? I mean, I was in at least four or five ELA classes with you. You couldn’t wait to get home before…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I deserved a reward for making it through your bullshit grocery scavenger hunt. I should’ve eaten </span>
  <em>
    <span>two </span>
  </em>
  <span>ice cream sandwiches.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie signaled he was done with the conversation by emptying the ice cream sandwiches into the freezer and huffily throwing the box into the recycling bin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie prepared to head into the living room but was imperiously handed the swiss chard and told, “Wash this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look, you bossy little fucker, this whole rodeo is </span>
  <em>
    <span>your </span>
  </em>
  <span>idea. I didn’t sign on for any of it. I don’t even know what this shit </span>
  <em>
    <span>is.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” For emphasis, Richie shook the chard like a maraca.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie turned, pointed at the freezer, and said, “You ate an ice cream sandwich--those were </span>
  <em>
    <span>my</span>
  </em>
  <span> idea, by the way--and I haven’t even had a chance to make lunch, besides the fact that…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This was washed at the grocery store. It was being sprayed with water just before I picked it up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“THAT’S NOT WASHING; THAT’S MISTING. THAT’S FOR HYDRATION.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though not strictly necessary, Richie shoulder-checked Eddie hard enough to make him stagger on his way to the sink. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>You’re</span>
  </em>
  <span> misting. Jesus. Everything is a production with you.” He flipped on the sink, pulled out the sink sprayer, thought about spraying Eddie in the back, and decided against it. Though appealing in many respects--he was temporarily dazed thinking about what would happen if the fabric was pasted to Eddie’s back as he watched Eddie’s shoulder blades move under his shirt--Richie also knew that when Eddie entered all-caps mode, he was exiting the zone where everything was all in good fun. The result of spraying him could reasonably be Eddie murdering him in a fit of rage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie sprayed the chard and then unraveled at least 3 feet of paper towels to dry it off. He spent some of the blotting-and-drying time thinking again about telling Eddie it might be a good idea if they gave up on Derry. If he encouraged Eddie to return to New York under the watchful eye of a more prepared adult, e.g. Eddie’s lawfully wedded wife, Eddie would probably live to be a very unpleasant 92-year-old man whose eyebrows only became more wild and lively in his geriatric years.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie had most of a speech together and was ready to begin it when he heard the telltale rattling of an inhaler. He turned to see Eddie walking unsteadily towards the sectional in the living room, pallid and wheezing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie dropped the towel-wrapped chard in the sink. “Eddie, are you okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie sat on the very end of the chaise and placed his elbows on his knees and hands to his temples. When Richie knelt in front of him, he could see a sheen of sweat on Eddie’s face and collarbone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eds, look at me. What’s happening?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span><br/>
</span>
  <span>His words dragged out between labored breaths. “I...don’t...know. I felt… dizzy. It... hurts… to breathe. The...inhaler isn’t...helping. I think… I’m having a… heart attack.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie placed one hand on Eddie’s knee and the other on his neck. He found Eddie’s pulse jackrabbiting under his skin. “Is your arm numb?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No… not really.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie bit his lip, thought </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck, I know what this is</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and said, “Buddy, before we call 911 or I take you into the hospital, sit here for a minute, okay? We’re going to figure this out. Try counting in your head for a little bit. Count to five and then start over. One, two, three....” He rose quickly, walked over to the kitchen island, and, yep…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The steaks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The wax paper was undone, each bloody piece of carved muscle displayed in its full glory. A few dots of ruby liquid were spattered around the gory centerpiece like vivid punctuation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie strode back to Eddie and resumed his position in front of him, cradling his knee and neck. “This started a few minutes ago, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie nodded miserably, still struggling to breathe evenly, the sweat at his temples making individual hairs stand out like blades of dewy grass.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, I’m pretty sure you’re not having a heart attack. Stick with me on this.” Squeezing Eddie’s knee, he asked, “Did you know Vidalia onions and sweet onions are the same thing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie was rewarded with one of Eddie’s churlish glances. “Of course I do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course you do. Well, I didn’t. I had to stand in front of a pile of onions and puzzle that out with the help of Google. Fun fact: there’s a different kind grown on the west coast called Walla Wallas.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie cast his eyes down to the floor again and his voice quavered. “Rich, am I dying?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not today. I promise. I’m here. I won’t let that happen.” Richie was surprised to hear how certain he sounded. Eddie nodded in response and continued breathing unevenly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But after another minute-plus had passed, Eddie’s labored inhalations evened out. Then he moved one hand from the back of his head and covered Richie’s hand on his neck. “Okay, I think I’m done.” Richie scooted back and sat on the floor, taking his hands with him. “Want me to grab you some water?” Eddie sat up, still pale but gaining color back in his face by the second, nodded dumbly. After an extra second to figure out how to get his 40-year-old frame to gracefully rise to a standing position, Richie made his way to the kitchen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>While he was there, he rewrapped the steaks. And, because he was bringing water to Eddie after doing so, he stopped to wash his hands. Then he grabbed a dish towel from the rack on the oven.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie sat down so that he was parallel to and shoulder-to-shoulder with Eddie. He nudged him with his forearm to indicate the water, which Eddie took with a near-whispered “Thanks” and drank it in two evenly divided swallows. When he set the glass down, Richie handed him the towel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That effort met with less success. “Blech, this smells like mildew.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, here then,” Richie said, unzipping his hoodie, “Use the arms to give yourself a pat-down. It has to be driving you crazy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie screwed up his mouth like he was going to argue, but took the hoodie and, using the sleeves, dabbed at his temples and his forehead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Wryly, Richie thought to himself</span>
  <em>
    <span> losing another jacket to this guy...you’re hard on a man’s wardrobe. </span>
  </em>
  <span>Out loud, he said, “I don’t suppose you’ve read up on or talked to any of your doctors about panic attacks before, have you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shaking his head, Eddie said, “No. Anxiety attacks, sure. Panic attacks, no.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not a doctor but I’m pretty sure that’s what happened. You can talk to your crew on Monday when I take you back for your check-up.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Guess you’re not giving that “parting is such sweet sorrow” speech anytime soon, Trashmouth,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he heard someone (Pennywise? Himself?) say in the back of his mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How’d you know?” Eddie asked as he leaned back, lolling his head back against the cushion, closing his eyes, folding his arms tight against his chest and Richie’s hoodie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A couple of reasons, but… mostly when I saw the steaks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Turning his head to look at Richie, Eddie’s eyes were clouded with befuddlement. After a moment or two, he cast his eyes down towards his own torso, understanding cleared them. “Oh. Neibolt.” Turning his face from Richie to gaze out the patio doors, he said, “I don’t remember anything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s probably by design.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Could you… please tell me what happened. Just so I know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie sighed. Mirroring Eddie, he folded his arms tight across his chest. “You said you remember throwing the fencepost? Do you remember anything else?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, not really. When I first saw you in the hospital, I remembered… I thought I remembered a crack in your glasses.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yep, that’s right.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And… in my dreams a few nights ago… I don’t know, it’s like...some of it is memory, and some of it is just crazy fucking nonsense. But I thought I heard you saying ‘We can still help.’” Eddie’s voice faltered. “But I couldn’t see you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In response, Richie felt his throat and chest tighten with oncoming tears. “That happened too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie covered his face with his hands. Through his fingers, he asked, “What next?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Tell the story like it didn’t happen to the two of you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
  <em>
    <span>..Is that what Bill would say if he were here?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Richie wondered. It sounded like something Bill’d come up with. Doing his best to keep his voice even, he started. “It had Mike. I freaked out. Was trying to distract It or… I don’t know, I didn’t think my plan out much. I was angry and tired. And I got my dumb ass caught in the Deadlights. The next thing I remember is your face in the dark. You were talking but I couldn’t make out the words. And then…” Richie tapped his own chest, remembering again the terrible scene that unfolded. “It had these spider legs that were also like Wolverine claws.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie watched as the hair on Eddie’s arms slowly raised until it was standing on end. “I remember that too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span> “And It… It stabbed you.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Stabbed</span>
  </em>
  <span> was the nicest word Richie’s mind could settle on… and that was all it took for a few tears to escape out of the corners of Richie’s eyes.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a few watery inhales and exhales, Eddie took his hands away from his face, not before roughly brushing his palms across his eyes. “Through my chest.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nothing much else to say, Richie thought. “Yeah, I guess. Like… your torso area.” Richie looked at Eddie’s upper body now, watched his chest rise and fall. Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, much like Eddie’s posture earlier. “You told us about seeing It at the pharmacy, how you’d nearly killed the fucker. You gave us enough to finish the job. I… I tried to stay with you. To take you with m… with us. But…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was dead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie wrung his hands. “Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I was buried there. Under the house. Because it collapsed. God.” A few more tears rolled down Eddie’s face. One caught in a crevice in his jawline, and the sight of it caused Richie to tangle his fingers together in a knot to keep from touching him. “I was so afraid I’d end up alone down there in the dark… and that’s exactly what happened.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Protestations withered in Richie’s throat. Repeating “I tried to take you with me” would sound weak. Telling Eddie that the rest of the Losers, concerned for their own safety, insisted that he be left behind would… not be cool. He said the only other thing he felt since he’d seen Eddie at the Derry Hospital: “I’m sorry, Eddie. I’m so sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Much to Richie’s surprise, Eddie turned onto his side and threw one arm across Richie’s chest in an awkward hug. Face buried somewhere between Richie’s collarbone and neck, he broke down. Turning his hips so that he could get both arms around Eddie, Richie pulled him closer, heartsick but also so grateful to feel Eddie in his arms, breathing, crying, balling up the back of Richie’s shirt in his fist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a while, Eddie leaned back and used the arm of Richie’s hoodie once again as impromptu bandana, mopping his face and the hollow of his neck. “I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For what, you jackass?” Richie had to fight his natural inclinations to tousle or pinch and settled for shaking Eddie lightly by his shoulders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I made fun of you about listening to Bryan Adams. He’s…actually not that bad. His early stuff, anyway.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, if only you knew, Eds.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “My feelings were more hurt when you fucking yelled at me for opening the ice cream sandwiches.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie gave him a lopsided smile-grimace combination that was so purely him Richie could feel his stomach turn over in a lazy, stupid somersault. “I mean, what the fuck is wrong with you? The box </span>
  <em>
    <span>says</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Open here.’” He raised his eyes to Richie’s, his laugh lines popping into place around his eyes and along both dimples, and for a dangerous moment, Richie thought </span>
  <em>
    <span>I could kiss him now.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you say we think about dinner prep?” Richie said. “I figure the next step is that you tell me how to put this dry rub on so they can rest in the fridge for at least 30 minutes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Did a lot of Googling while you were at the store, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You wouldn’t answer me about the mushrooms. I needed to do something to pass the time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie’s arm was still around Eddie’s shoulders. Neither of them seemed inclined to move.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then Eddie pressed Richie’s hoodie forward into Richie’s chest. “Thanks.” Richie took that as the cue to remove his arm from Eddie’s shoulders and give him some space.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure, what are friends for?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie thought about Richie’s words for the remainder of the day. He turned it over in his mind from the moment they stood from the couch together and went into the kitchen to finish the dry rub. Richie made up for lost time making as many masturbation-themed jokes in as short a time as possible (“Oregano has two Os in it; I haven’t managed that since I was in my 20s” was Eddie’s personal favorite).</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sure, what are friends for</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Sure, they were friends. But there was also something else under the surface, and it was as true as their friendship. Eddie realized he was probably too terrified at age 13; but now, at age 40, even in a marriage where regular, consistent sex had dried up, he recognized it for what it was.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He has the hots for me. And I have the hots for him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Bev and Ben and Bill and Mike were all good friends. The best. And perhaps he’d had idle sex-related thoughts about them all over the years. But Eddie remembered now, </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew</span>
  </em>
  <span> now his thoughts about Richie weren’t idle. They’d occupied a different space in his mind, one his body clearly hadn’t forgotten. Their entire preteen and teen years were a parade of sleepovers walking right up to the line of something, wrestling matches that shockingly didn’t result in an unintended boner (at least </span>
  <em>
    <span>while </span>
  </em>
  <span>wrestling), and pinches and tousles just like the ones he’d received in the hospital days earlier. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That goddamn day in the hammock</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Not content with his legs to be wrapped around Richie, Eddie could once again feel the compulsion to keep touching. It was always under the guise of causing maximum annoyance--and that was fun too, in its way--but always, always wanting to touch and be touched. As memories snuck into Eddie’s mind, he recalled at least two occasions where he had to go to the other side of the fort and hang out on his own or with one of their other friends to cool off so that he wouldn’t have to find a hidden corner of The Barrens in which to furiously rub one out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then today… Richie looking at his mouth, arm around him like they were at the movies…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that </span>
  <em>
    <span>goddamn </span>
  </em>
  <span>Heart song.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The terror of knowing his body and a part of his subconscious could remember dying, but he could not was temporarily dulled by an intoxicating wave of physical hunger he hadn’t felt in at least a decade.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They spent their post-lunch hours orbiting around each other. Eddie could tell Richie was trying to give him space while also occupying a place in the house where he could see Eddie by taking a half a step in any direction. Richie spent most of it in the living room reading a Dan Brown book he’d found downstairs, taking time out to enact scenes he found particularly ridiculous. It reminded Eddie of a long-buried memory that had been stitched into one of his recent dreams: Richie had read to him from one of his mother’s romance novels. Even though he had been doing voices and making fun of it all, something about Richie’s voice, floating up to him in the dark of his bedroom--</span>
  <em>
    <span>where I take my clothes off</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Eddie remembered thinking to himself in that near-constant state of mortification and horniness that defined his preteen years--made him crazy with the need to touch himself. In fact, he was pretty sure he </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> touched himself, thinking </span>
  <em>
    <span>Richie is saying sex words. To me. Just the two of us all alone in here. He’s not doing it to get a reaction from Stan or Bill or Mike or Bev. He’s talking about sex to me the way that he would, by being a total fucking idiot and making it all a joke.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Was this simply a side effect of the whole horrible Pennywise experience? Was it easier to think about sex rather than the horrifying truth that he’d been buried under a pile of rubble with a hole blasted through his most required organs?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or maybe it was simply Richie’s legs. There’d always been something about Richie’s legs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey, Iron Chef.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie looked away from Richie to the chard he’d magically ribboned. “Hmm?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie’s tone sharpened. “Eds?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yesssss.</span>
  </em>
  <span> What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie closed the book, marking his place with one long finger. “You okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get off my dick.”</span>
</p><p><span>Eddie was alarmed Richie didn’t taken the opportunity to make a joke, instead pressing his mouth into a thin line of repressed irritation. </span><em><span>Why? Why choose that phrase, Eddie?</span></em> <em><span>Oh, hey, Rich, totally unrelated but: want to play Quarry? We’ll take almost all of our clothes off and instead of jumping from a cliff, we’ll… see what happens.</span></em><span> “Sorry. I know you’re looking out for me. I’m sure I’m fine. I’m thinking about… starting the grill.”</span></p><p>
  <span>Richie rolled his eyes, sighing dramatically. “Freaking one-track mind.” He reopened the book. “When last we left our heroes, they were arriving at Westminster Abbey, where I’m hoping they run into Ben Gates or Lara Croft…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie sighed with relief.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie cut into his steak, looked up, and put his utensils down. “We’re going to have to make a ground rule about this, Edward.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you had a tough day. I’m trying to be an understanding sort of person, which is a massive fucking effort for me. But if you stare at me like a lemur while I’m eating, vibrating with all your crazy-ass Kaspbrak intensity, I’m going to throw this steak like a Frisbee towards the river. Like Pennywise bait.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not. Funny.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> being funny. I’m being very, very serious. Let’s pretend we’re getting changed for gym class. Do what you used to do and look at the sky.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie shifted uncomfortably. “Fuck off. Fine. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fine.</span>
  </em>
  <span> I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> looking at you.” Richie watched as Eddie shifted focus to his own plate, his mouth screwed up into a snarl.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie couldn’t resist. “Stop pouting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In response, Eddie picked up his fork, but continued looking at his own plate. “I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> pouting. And stop. Telling me. What. TO DO. And for fuck’s SAKE, take a bite of steak before I jam this fork into your eardrum.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Satisfied terms and conditions were being met, Richie speared the steak and chewed. Then he set down his utensils again. He put a hand between Eddie’s shoulder blades and gave him a few pats. “Dude, it’s good. It’s really good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie took in a shuddering breath; he sounded like he had passed the initial round of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Top Chef</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fucking lunatic,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Richie thought fondly. “Are you sure it didn’t need…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever you’re about to say, the answer is no, for chrissake and a million times no. It’s a triumph. Shut up and eat your steak.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie redirected his fork from eardrum-threatening position back to his plate. “Well… it was a team effort.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re an insufferable pain in my balls,” Richie said around another bite of steak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After finishing dinner, Richie lit the patio table’s citronella candle, plugged in one of the speakers so that they could enjoy music on the deck, and got them both an ice cream sandwich from the freezer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Leaning back in his chair, watching the light fade out of the sky, Richie asked a question that had been on his mind since Eddie announced he had talked to Bev the previous morning. “On a scale of 1 to 10, how in love would you say you were with Bev when we were kids?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie stopped mid-lick at the seam of his sandwich. “Bev?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, Bev, who showed us all her training bra in 1989. That Bev.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even in the dimming light, Richie could see Eddie quickly work through about four lines of thought in a microsecond. Then he took a bite of the sandwich and, around it, said, “It...shifted, I guess. Sometimes a 6. Sometimes a 4. There...didn’t seem like there was room for </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> of us to be in love with her. And this is going to sound dumb but I was always more interested in wanting her to think I was </span>
  <em>
    <span>cool</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That must be one of the greatest disappointments of your life, man. You’ve </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> been cool.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie’s follow-up “Shut up” lacked bite. Then he said, “How in love were </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie tried, through his periphery, to look at all the parts of Eddie Kaspbrak that were the same as they were in his youth: his dizzyingly dark eyes, his infuriatingly full head of hair, his Grand Canyon dimples. Then he took inventory of the things about Eddie that had changed: the masculine peaks and valleys of his neck, his biceps and forearms filled out from the pipe cleaners they’d been in his early teens. “Pretty in love. You know, for me, I guess. I wasn’t much for girls… then.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Weak, Tozier. Very, very weak.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>After another bite of ice cream sandwich and watching a dragonfly zip through their airspace, Eddie cast a thoughtful look his way. “You sure talked a lot about girls.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think if you were listening to content, you’d have heard I was talking about girls as an abstract rather than a reality.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I tried my best not to listen at all.” Eddie punctuated his retort by balling up his wrapper and bouncing it off Richie’s temple. “Especially when it was a near-constant stream of you talking about fucking my mom.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As though the 1980s playlist Richie had put on shuffle was in sync with the two of them, Janet Jackson’s “Nasty” started up. Caught off guard, Richie barked out laughter. “Janet is backing you up here, Eds. Nasty boys don’t mean a thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie retreated from the deck back into the house, and Richie watched the candle flicker and a few fireflies start their nightly ritual out in the yard. The patio doors slid open, and Eddie reappeared with another pair of ice cream sandwiches and handed one to him. “I don’t remember you telling me who you ended up scoring with while we were in Derry. I’ve remembered a lot about middle school but I’m drawing a blank on who it was you went to prom with.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ignoring the implied first half of the question, Richie responded, “We all went to prom as a group. I can’t remember all the details, but I’m pretty sure only Bev and Bill and Stan got lucky that night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stan?” Eddie asked. “I mean… I guess that makes sense. He did become a man before the rest of us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Letting Young Richie take the wheel, he dismissively threw out, “Speak for yourself.” Janet chose this moment to remind them it was “Miss Jackson if you’re nasty.” Richie continued, “Yeah, Stan ended up hooking up with… one of the girls in marching band. Brown hair. Big tits.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Classic. You can’t remember any of the names of the doctors you met last week, but your recall on tits goes back a generation.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You should try my memory about you, pal. I still remember when your first four chest hairs made their appearance. January 1990. Volleyball unit in gym class. I tugged at them and said, “Someone forgot to weed today.”</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Trashmouth wasn’t just a moniker; it was a way of life,” he said pleasantly, then said, “If you didn’t suck face with any Derry girls, you must’ve exploded onto the scene in college. Girls were always so crazy about you, you Robert Downey Jr. looking motherfucker.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A noncommittal “Hmm” was the only response he received.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well?” Richie asked impatiently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie looked at him. “I asked </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> a fucking question that you seem to be conveniently ignoring. Anyway, I don’t… think you and I should be talking about this. It makes me feel weird.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because you’re an asshole, and I’ll tell you things, and you’ll… be a dick about it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Buddy, you brought me a second ice cream sandwich. Actually, it’s my third one because as you’ll recall, I ate one on the way home from the grocery store. I figure the least I can do is defy your expectations and </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>be an asshole for the next 5 to 10 minutes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie folded his arms across his chest. “I guess I did okay in college… you know, like </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>. But nothing really lasted long. And I didn’t make a lot of friends. When I think about that time, mostly I remember how lonely I was. Even though I didn’t live with my mom anymore, I was still </span>
  <em>
    <span>there </span>
  </em>
  <span>with her. I got a cell phone, even though back then everyone was talking about how they’d give you brain cancer. And she called </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie’s voice had gotten quieter and quieter, more reflective and sadder. It felt like a bag of concrete mix was sitting on Richie’s chest. “I get it, man. Early on, when I was doing open mikes and college gigs and all the stuff that’s supposed to bond you together with the other idiots who are trying to make it in comedy, I ended up spending so much time alone. Sometimes I’d go to the movies in the middle of the day by myself rather than hang out with people. And they weren’t even movies I wanted to see.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Except for </span>
  <em>
    <span>Twister</span>
  </em>
  <span>, apparently.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gasping in faux shock, Richie exclaimed, “Eddie Kaspbrak with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>callback</span>
  </em>
  <span>! My goodness, color me impressed!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your praise means a lot, but be sure to let me know what your writing team thinks. That would mean more.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In spite of himself, Richie laughed. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Ouch!</span>
  </em>
  <span> Damn, dude, I think that’s going to leave a mark!” He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “So I guess that’s an end to all the self-reflective, heartfelt shit, huh? Good.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I could tell you about how Myra was one of the nurses assigned to my mom when she was initially going through chemo. That’s an equal mix of sad shit and your favorite annoying topic. That’s worth at least ten minutes of material.” He glanced over at Eddie and must have been wearing his thoughts clearly enough to be seen through the increasing darkness. “Don’t look at me like that,” Eddie stated, his voice flat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Trying to inject a little lightheartedness, Richie said, “You’re lucky I granted you a full 10 minutes of asshole-free interaction.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The offering bounced off of Eddie’s raised defenses. “I’d rather you be an asshole that feel sorry for me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie suddenly felt very lost and rudderless. “Eds, come on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After exhaling, very long and very loud, Eddie banged his head against the shake shingle siding of the cottage. “And I haven’t called her all fucking day. I talked to Bev but not her. She’s going to go nuclear.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“At least </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m</span>
  </em>
  <span> not in trouble anymore.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Self-absorbed dickhead.” The words were harsh, but Eddie’s voice was brimming with affection. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie felt a similar sense of comfort to the one he’d felt when Eddie’s told him he looked like shit that first day at the hospital. “Yeah, dumbass, I’m a successful comedian. You’re lucky I can hear your voice at all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the ensuing lull, Richie picked up on the song slipping out of the portable speaker:</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, all through the night today</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Knowing that we feel the same without saying</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>We have no past</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>We won’t reach back</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Enough with this shit,</span>
  </em>
  <span> he thought wearily. He didn’t need shuffle soundtracking every stupid adolescent desire in his heart. “You should probably call her before it gets too late.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie sighed, “Yeah,” but continued sitting on the deck, a closed door away from his phone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, well… totally unrelated but I’m going to turn in.” Richie stood, unplugging his phone from the speaker, effectively stopping Cyndi. Eddie rose too, his posture so stiff and tense Richie imagined he could have tipped him over like a bowling pin. “Hey, nice job again on the steak. I’m glad you spent all day studying. It was mostly worth it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie was rewarded with Eddie trying, and failing, to quash a smile. “Thanks. It was…” he paused, seeming momentarily confused. “Is it weird if I say it was a pretty good day?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nah, man. We fought practically all day, you had a panic attack, and we cried a bunch. It was solid.” Richie took a step forward and raised his right arm up, intending to offer a high five or some other benign friendly gesture. But Eddie stepped forward and hugged him. It was brief but forceful, and when he stepped back, his cheek brushed against Richie’s. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dude, you’re killing me.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Stop stalling, would ya?” Richie popped open the patio door and waved Eddie in, who responded by defensively saying “Pfft,” then stepping through back into the living room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie thumped down the stairs and closed the bedroom door, mostly to spare himself hearing the almost guaranteed domestic squabble but also because he was definitely going to wrap up the evening by jerking off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The phone call began with “Where have you been? I’ve tried to call you four times!” and declined from there. Eddie felt trapped: he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, admit the worst parts of the day, because that would mean talking about the illogical and terrifying events in Derry that landed him in the hospital; he definitely didn’t want to talk about Richie; and he didn’t know where to begin with what he and Bev had briefly discussed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Myra wanted to talk. She talked about her concerns about his health and his test results. She pressed for him to return to New York. She angrily hinted around the edges of not trusting Richie and not liking Richie. She talked about how he was not talking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All in all, the conversation, such as it was, lasted nearly an hour, and it left Eddie exhausted but unable to sleep. So he reorganized the kitchen cabinets. He read the end of </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Da Vinci Code</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He restlessly watched tv. Around 1:30 in the morning, he descended the stairs and took up residence in the rec area of the lower level not far from Richie’s closed bedroom door, where it seemed the evening’s musical artist was Cyndi Lauper, based on the way </span>
  <em>
    <span>She Bop</span>
  </em>
  <span> faded into </span>
  <em>
    <span>Time After Time.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie selected a 1,000-piece puzzle from the shelf, one depicting deer standing in a snowy field that contained a barn and a silo. It was soothingly neutral with the exception of the pastel-colored sky. He hunched over the coffee table and started to sort the border pieces while he tried not to think about the non-conversation he’d had with his wife while also listening to Richie’s snoring, which was barely audible under Cyndi’s vocals.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bent over the coffee table, Eddie slowly built the border and considered the possibility that Myra was right. She was a medical professional. She’d been his wife for over a decade. Doctors in New York were probably better.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted to be here. He wanted to be with Richie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he knew he should take something to help him sleep--more of that terrible calming tea, a sleep aid, a half-dose of the pain med they’d given him--rather than continue to argue with Myra in his mind and say the words he hadn’t said during their phone call, even if only to himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie wanted. He was drowning in want.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He kept building the puzzle out, working on the barn and silo.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He hadn’t thought about his college years in a long time. He hadn’t thought about the sex drought he’d experienced the past year in… well, probably a year.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Maybe, Eddie thought, if I open his door, he’d be willing to talk to me for a little bit.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Who are you kidding, Eddie, you’re not thinking about talking. You haven’t thought about talking since the border of the puzzle was finished. You’re thinking about crawling into bed with him in the middle of the night. You’re thinking about putting your hands all over him while he’s unconscious, which is definitely uncool, probably criminal.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not that Richie would mind. It was the feeling--almost a certainty, really--that Richie </span>
  <em>
    <span>wouldn’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>mind that had him frozen. His palms were sweating enough that he stopped working on the puzzle to wipe them on his pants.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Were you in love with Bev?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Girls were always crazy about you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I wasn’t much for girls...then.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie had been right about one thing: it had been a </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> full day. And Richie’s expression when he’d admitted where he met Myra bothered him. And the argument with Myra had made him feel confused and doubtful and worried. And he hadn’t asked the doctors yet about </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And he shouldn’t think about </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>if he was still married.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie started sorting out the pieces to make the deer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And thought some more.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie squinted at the alarm clock on the bedside table and paused the music playing on his phone. He’d assumed it was morning but it was still pre-dawn, closing in on 4 AM. Groaning, he stretched and weighed whether the pressure on his bladder was enough to uncocoon himself from the sheets and shuffle two doors down to the bathroom. He forewent putting his glasses on, relatively certain he could manage this 3-minute task without them. Opening the door, he was surprised to have lamplight greet him. He put a hand up to shield his eyes and yelped in surprise to see a blurry form he could only assume was Eddie on the couch. “Holy </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit</span>
  </em>
  <span>! What are you doing?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie stood guiltily (or at least Richie assumed, based on the speed at which Eddie stood up and not by any facial expression, because he definitely couldn’t make that shit out) and said, “A puzzle.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“At four in the morning? What the hell?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Eddie form tilted his palms up as though preparing to shrug. Then he dropped his arms to his side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then there was a long enough uncomfortable silence to remind Richie he was standing there in his underwear. And while technically he and Eddie had seen each other in a similar state of undress, that was nearly 30 years in the past. Eddie wasn’t the only one whose body had changed. Richie was now immersed in the uncomfortable fact that now the tables were turned in the very worst, most vulnerable of ways, and Eddie was taking in all those details while Richie couldn’t see him doing it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My balls aren’t out, are they?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wasn’t… no.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite wanting his glasses and a shirt and pants, Richie tried his best to maintain casual indifference by remaining rooted in place. “Was the conversation with your wife that bad?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie scratched his head and sank back to the couch. “It...wasn’t great.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, I need my glasses for this. I’ll be right back.” Richie returned to his room, threw his Street Fighter tee back on and grabbed his glasses. Before heading back into the common area, he confirmed that his balls were truly secure in his boxer briefs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He walked back out to find Eddie seated squarely in the center of the couch. Nudging Eddie’s knee with his bare foot, Richie gestured for him to move over so that he could take a seat next to him. He took in the puzzle. “You never fail to amaze me. How many pieces does this horrorshow have?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“1,000.” Eddie replied, crossing and recrossing his arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked at Eddie, who seemed to be intently studying the halfway assembled deer at the center of the table. “Dude, what happened? You’ve got stuff to help you sleep, and you’ve got a follow-up Monday. I don’t want doctors yelling at me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s not how this works; they’re not parents or teachers,” Eddie responded, though he looked sheepish. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crossing his leg over his knee, Richie extended far enough to nudge Eddie’s knee again. “Come on, out with it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie looked from the puzzle to Richie’s face, then back to the puzzle, then somewhere in between. “I don’t know. It’s a lot of the same stuff we talked about before she went home: she doesn’t trust the doctors here. She didn’t like my test results. She knows a specialist.” He paused, his eyes slightly unfocused. He took a moment to chew on his lower lip. “Weren’t you going to the bathroom or something?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m 40, not 60. My prostate is still good for something. That all?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. I mean, mostly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>She fucking hates me.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “Regular married people stuff, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie looked up at him from his middle-distance spot somewhere in the room. “Yeah.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bill told me I wouldn’t get it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie’s jaw tightened perceptibly. “I don’t… know that that’s strictly true.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie figured he’d make it easy on Eddie for once. “She’s right not to trust me, you know. I’m not exactly a paragon of reliability.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Also, without your knowledge, I’ve kind of been using you as my own personal porn stash the last few days.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rich, I don’t think I have it in me for more discussion on this topic tonight.”  Richie could feel Eddie fidgeting through the cushions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay. Then I’m going to take a leak. Do you… would it help if I slept upstairs with you?” The lift in Eddie’s eyebrows made him scramble to add “On the couch. While you’re… in your room.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie stood abruptly. “No, you… you were right. I should take something and go to bed. You go back to… you stay down here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie gave him a once-over. “What’s with the tone?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without appearing to notice or give it much thought, Eddie quietly and sincerely said “Sorry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was busting your balls, man. Good night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie departed, and Richie waited until he heard the door to Eddie’s room close before he made his way to the bathroom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the first time in his 40 years on Earth, Eddie Kaspbrak thought, </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Fuck doctor’s orders</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Shut up in his bathroom, high on adrenaline and exhaustion, thinking over and over about the miraculous reveal of Richie’s underwear-clad body, Eddie jerked off, clapping a hand over his mouth to keep from howling with ecstatic relief.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I want Richie. I </span>
  </em>
  <span>want</span>
  <em>
    <span> him.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>When he finally closed his eyes to sleep, dawn less than an hour away, Eddie sighed and thought, </span>
  <em>
    <span>I guess I don’t have to have a bunch of cryptic dreams anymore.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>But his subconscious churned up another version of his kissing bridge dream: after the turtle, back in his room, he couldn’t see Richie in the park, but he could hear Richie calling his name, over and over, raw and hysterical, somewhere nearby.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie had heard many awful things in his life--Pennywise’s creepy jovial taunts, the leper’s gargled breathing, his own arm breaking--but Richie calling hopelessly for him has to be the most truly terrible sound he’d ever heard. He turned to his bedroom door and wrenched it open…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>… and found himself in Richie’s bedroom in the cottage. His mind had retained all the details from that first day: the new clothes indiscriminately thrown over the bed, an overnight bag tossed into the chair, some spare change on the nightstand, a pair of underwear Richie had kicked off next to the nightstand. The room filled with the smell of the quarry but also, underneath it, was the smell of Richie: deodorant and coffee and something primal he couldn’t name. He looked back at the door and saw something carved into it, like graffiti on a school desk…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their initials. An R and a E. And, in between the letters, a plus sign.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie touched it and felt a ghostly sensation of stubble rubbing against his cheek, of long, heavy arms around him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, just beyond the door, Richie’s voice, calm and even, said “Hey, Eds?”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Songs featured are "Somebody" and the prom theme of 1991 "(Everything I Do) I Do It For You" by Bryan Adams, "What About Love" by Heart, and "All Through the Night" by Cyndi Lauper (also inspiring the title). "Burning for You" by Blue Oyster Cult and "Nasty" by Janet Jackson are mentioned too.</p><p>Eddie is wrong, GI Joe didn't teach anyone about windows, but they DID teach us about not swimming during thunderstorms: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=69himbaHUMw</p><p>And, oddly enough, not getting into abandoned refrigerators (PENNYWISE): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BQEY8LWi71Y</p><p>Stan was onto something: puzzles are cool, man</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Nothing Erases This Feeling Between Me and You</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Eddie thinks, Richie cleans, the two of them take a walk, and then the two of them get down (I believe in an M not E way)</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Richie knocked on Eddie’s bedroom door around 9:30 but did not await an answer. He was greeted by the sight of Eddie sprawled out on his side. His back was to Richie, his black hair feathering out against a floral-patterned pillowcase, one arm flung out from under the sheet across the left side of the bed. “Hey, Eds, are you still asleep?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An imperceptible string of mutterings drifted over from the head of the bed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie set the mug of green tea he’d prepared on the nightstand on Eddie’s side of the bed, walked over to the vacant side of the bed and sat, wondering if it would be acceptable at this point to slide himself under Eddie’s arm...just as a joke, of course. He studied the lines of Eddie’s form under the comforter until Eddie’s sleep-fuzzed voice said, “Stop staring at me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can’t help it, man. It looks like you have a crown of flowers on your head. You’re like a sweet little prince in an illustrated picture book. I brought you some grass clippings in hot water. The box said super antioxidant, so, y’know, anti-turkey bacon or whatever.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rolling from his side to his back with a speed that suggested he was more awake than he let on, Eddie murmured, “Thanks” and rubbed at his eyes, then raised himself up into a seated position against the headboard. “What do you want to do today?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie detected something new and different in Eddie’s expression. It knocked him a little off-center. “What do you mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Squinting, Eddie grabbed the pillow closest to Richie’s hand and repositioned it so that it was behind his shoulder blades. The threadbare white shirt he was wearing strained against his shoulders and arms. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’ll be thinking about that all fucking day. </span>
  </em>
  <span>“What do you mean ‘What do I mean?’ I mean what should we do with our day besides finish the puzzle?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I regret to inform you that while I will do many things for you and with you, dude, you can count me out on that stupid puzzle. I’d rather someone run my head over with a lawnmower.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie sighed and crossed his arms against his chest. “Well, you can’t play Street Fighter anymore so what else is there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie wouldn’t call it a twinkle in Eddie’s eye. It had earmarks of usual Eddie expressions--a little nervous, a little manic, a little controlling and bullheaded--but something under it reminded Richie of the way a jungle cat looked while draped on a tree branch: deceptively casual and coolly calculating. “I don’t know, man! Are you suggesting we drive to Wild Acadia and play minigolf? You’re… recovering. I figured we’d do more of the same. You can send me to the store on a project or...whatever,” he finished lamely.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I should go for a walk at some point. I didn’t do that yesterday.” A corner of Eddie’s mouth turned up as though acknowledging a private joke.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dude, you’re weirding me out. Are you stoned? Did you, like, take mushrooms after we talked at…” Richie faltered, remembering the circumstances of their middle-of-the-night rendezvous, “...puzzle o’clock?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why are </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> being weird? All suspicious and combative? I’m just asking a fucking question.” Eddie appeared to think for a moment. “Though now that you mention it, golf does sound like fun. We could play for-real golf. Go to a driving range.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Who do you think you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>talking</span>
  </em>
  <span> to? What gives you the idea I can </span>
  <em>
    <span>golf</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Working in insurance has fucked your entire worldview, man.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie flipped the comforter to the side. His lower half remained draped in a sheet but Richie could now see a bare calf and a scrap of stretchy navy blue material covering Eddie’s hip. “I could teach you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite the momentary temptation to give into Eddie’s bare calf and a hint of underwear, his response was to grimace and widen his eyes to clearly communicate, sans words, </span>
  <em>
    <span>No fucking way.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine, no golf. Have you taken a shower yet?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. I’ve been busy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Busy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, </span>
  <em>
    <span>busy</span>
  </em>
  <span>, asshole. I scrubbed the grill, took out the garbage, and started the dishwasher. And swept.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>swept? </span>
  </em>
  <span>With a broom?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be a condescending prick.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie emitted a sound that was half-scoff, half-laugh. “I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span>. I’m...impressed.” He punctuated the statement by running his eyes over Richie in a way that almost seemed suggestive. Except they’d been talking about </span>
  <em>
    <span>chores.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie stood abruptly and pointed to the mug on the nightstand. “Okay, so… I brought you that. I’m going to go and let you get whatever this is out of your system, because it’s officially freaking me out. You… figure out what you want to do with the day that is not me doing some weird geriatric activity with you.” Eddie’s eyes seemed to darken and his enigmatic smile returned. Richie continued, “I’m going to take a shower. Not because you suggested it but because… I am.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The lazy, predatory look flitted across Eddie’s face again. “Okay, Rich.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay. Don’t… say my name like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie shrugged indifferently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie backed out of the room. “Fucking psycho,” he muttered under his breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Once down the stairs to the lower level of the house, he paused to wipe the sweat from his hairline and temples.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie idly thought back to their rediscovery of the hideout while he showered.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Specifically, it was the memory of finding the long-lost rubber ball that had once belonged to Ben’s $3 paddleball. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh, this is cool.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Only instead of a drugstore toy, today, it was his libido, and he had the same furious, explosive inclination to drive all his energy fully into it. He realized it was a dangerous comparison, given that he managed to break the paddleball within seconds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nevertheless…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he bounded out of the bedroom, ready to face the day, he discovered Richie was not on the first floor. This afforded him the luxury of examining Richie’s housework without being accused of seeking fault while also enjoying his own private electrified reaction to the idea of Richie performing domestic duties on their mutual behalf.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Is this what a fetish is?</span>
  </em>
  <span> he mused, running his hand over the toasty-warm front of the dishwasher, walking the length and width of the kitchen floor appreciating the (mostly) detritus-free surface. He struggled against his baser urges, reminding himself that he was no longer a teenager and needed to give his body a little more of a break before firing it up with stimulation again. Also it was empirically gross and unhygienic to masturbate in a kitchen. To distract himself, he took an additional 20 of paroxetine as a just-in-case countermeasure to yesterday’s excitement and then slipped down the stairs to work on the puzzle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The downstairs bathroom shower was running. Eddie thought better of lying in wait on the couch and, with gentle effort, was able to transfer the completed portions of the puzzle back into the box in easy-to-assemble pieces and carry it upstairs to the kitchen island.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time Richie appeared, Eddie’s sublimated horniness had resulted in the heart of the puzzle--deer, barn, and silo--connected in one big center mass. He took a break from sorting cloud pieces from solid blue pieces to give Richie a once-over--he recalled his annual sexual harassment training calling that sort of thing “elevator eyes”--and said, “Did you clean Target out of all the video game-themed tee shirts?”, indicating Richie’s Atari logoed number.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I left the Super Mario ones because they suck.” He paused. “And some other ones I didn’t understand. I’m...pretty sure Minecraft is a video game anyway. Or it’s a cartoon. I didn’t care enough to look it up. How’s your weird late-night project coming along? Do I need to go to Hobby Lobby and get you one of those puzzle mats my grandma had?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, but when I finish it, I’m going to glue it together, frame it, and give to you as a memento of our time together.” Eddie managed to simultaneously put another chunk of blue sky together while also flipping Richie off. “And then you can stick it up your ass. They can probably help you with that at Hobby Lobby, you fuck.” He leaned back from the puzzle, pleased with the progress he saw, and said, “Wanna go for a walk to the park and back? It’s supposed to be humid today. Another front is coming through; it’s probably going to storm again tonight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie seemed to hesitate for a moment but said, “Sure. If you can manage to part with that thing, I can go for a Sunday stroll. Which park?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie pushed a few pieces that appeared to be the post of the mailbox into a cluster. “Bassey, I guess. It’s on the way into town. Then we can stop for a few things at the store before heading back.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay.” Eddie observed the way Richie’s mouth seemed to flatten into a tense line but said nothing. There was time to ask later.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As they walked towards Bassey along the sidewalk, Richie’s dread continued to grow. While intellectually he knew the park was just a park, and the hideous statue of Bunyan was only grotesque because it was fiberglass and ugly and not because it could be possessed by an alien spider or filled with winged creatures, he still didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to go there. Especially not with Eddie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was so preoccupied with apprehension that the other landmark they were strolling past was a complete surprise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie pointed towards the kissing bridge and said, “I’ve been dreaming about that place a lot.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have? What about it?” Richie could feel his airway tighten.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing big, I guess. I’m just standing there. Oh, I guess there’s a turtle.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Holy fucking shit.</span>
  </em>
  <span> “A turtle, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, it wants to cross the road so I pick it up to help it. I guess…” Eddie stopped walking, his eyes on the bridge, his voice becoming detached. “It’s like I’m back in the house on Neibolt Street. My chest hurts, which makes sense given… uh, anyway...then I’m… somewhere else.” He stopped talking and noticed Richie’s troubled expression. “What? Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie looked over at the bridge and the wooden guardrails, turning the memory over in his mind. It had been such a comforting moment at the time. “At the risk of ruining what was a lovely run of normalcy, I have to tell you that as I was leaving town--before you… came back--I stopped by the bridge and while I was there I… moved a turtle across the road. Like, I for-real did that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Putting his hands in his pockets, Eddie continued to look at him suspiciously. “You’re not fucking with me, are you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re giving me far too much credit, man. I’m not that creative.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It would be like you to try to take credit for bringing me back to life, though,” Eddie said with a half-smile.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Smirking, Richie replied, “Shit, there are </span>
  <em>
    <span>some</span>
  </em>
  <span> limits to my ego.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they reached the park, Richie looked up at the statue and froze. He may have stopped breathing for a moment. Standing side by side, gazing upon Paul's grinning face, Eddie speculated, “Seems like you kinda hate that thing.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. Yeah, I guess. It’s what Pennywise used to torque me off… torture me a few times. He did it when I was a kid and then again a few weeks ago.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jesus, Rich, you should’ve told me. I never would’ve made you come here if I had known. I’m sorry.” Eddie put a hand between his shoulder blades, fingers splayed, almost as though he was holding him up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie felt his knees Jell-o out for a moment. “It’s not your fault. I didn’t know how to talk about it.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>And that’s just the beginning of shit about me I’ve never known how to talk about.</span>
  </em>
  <span> He wished there was an easy way to tell Eddie the next bit, the way it had tumbled out of him with Bev. Without the horrible, empty knowledge that Eddie was gone as an impetus, Richie was more comfortable retreating back to what he knew best: absolute, fixed silence on the topic of Richie Tozier and His Sexual Orientation. He especially wasn’t about to tell Eddie as Eddie touched him, even fraternally and gently, in front of that fucking hideous totem. The idea alone was mortifying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie dropped his hand and gave Richie a gentle shove. “We can go over to Keene’s pharmacy if you want. See if the leper is hanging around. Make it even.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ugh, no thanks. And see that pedophile-ass old pharmacist with the face dandruff? That’d be a punishment to both of us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t say I didn’t offer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie smiled but found himself distracted, thinking of Eddie’s dream turtle and the kissing bridge and Eddie’s hand on his back and Eddie’s body against his in yesterday’s crooked hug on the chaise. Though he knew that he was normal, liking guys was normal, sex with guys was normal, it was fine, it gets better et cetera, there was something very gentle and caring and sweet (as embarrasing as it was to think about for too long) at the core of whatever it was between him and Eddie.</span>
</p><p><em><span>Fuck that hideous statue. And fuck Pennywise, wherever It is.</span></em> <em><span>There’s nothing wrong with any of what I feel about this spastic fucking jerk.</span></em></p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The day progressed much like the day before. Instead of studying grilling, Eddie finished the deer puzzle (and surreptitiously snapped a picture of it with his phone while Richie was in the bathroom), then started a new one, a Thomas Kinkade painting of a thatched-roof cottage with a weird metallic sheen. Richie walked by, looked at the box, looked at Eddie, blew out a long exhalation with a look of hopelessness on his face, said, “You wanted Bev to think you were cool,” and went to his now-regular place on the couch to flip channels or play a game on his phone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie worked on the new, very shiny puzzle, and cycled in and out of waves of lust, followed by frantic tail-chasing thoughts. He would think about Richie sitting next to him in his tee and boxer briefs, sleep-rumpled, smelling masculine, thinking about all the fine hair on his miles of shin and thigh, and nearly convince himself he could march over to the couch, push Richie onto his back, and hump mindlessly all over him like an unneutered dog.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Eddie would think about how:</span>
</p>
<ol>
<li>
<span>He was married. Just because he was unhappy </span><em><span>right now</span></em><span> was no excuse for infidelity.</span>
</li>
<li><span>He died last week.</span></li>
<li><span>He hadn’t had sex in a while so maybe he was confused.</span></li>
<li><span>He didn’t really know how Richie felt because he was too afraid to ask. He’d rather beg forgiveness than ask permission, because it was basically how they’d run their adolescence. Well, minus the forgiveness part. Mostly they’d just taken turns bulldozing over one another sans apology.</span></li>
</ol><p>
  <span>He had cross-arguments on point number 4::</span>
</p>
<ol>
<li><span>He was pretty sure he knew how Richie felt. He’d call it 90% certain.</span></li>
<li><span>Out of that 90%, he was 80% sure that Richie’s feelings might fall into a category he’d consider Very Strong.</span></li>
<ol>
<li><span>The reason he believed this was because the dreams seemed to contain bits and pieces of things that Richie said happened at Neibolt.</span></li>
<ol>
<li><span>Specifically, Richie’s voice calling out to him. That seemed very real and very indicative of strong feelings.</span></li>
</ol>
</ol>
<li><span>As a matter of fact, he now seemed to recall some very telling details about this theory related to that romance novel incident from middle school.</span></li>
</ol><p>
  <span>But then the counter-arguments to 2 and its subpoints were:</span>
</p>
<ol>
<li><span>If Richie felt so strongly, was it fair to instigate something while he was still married?</span></li>
<li><span>Maybe Richie’s strong feelings were rooted in him having died and then not-died.</span></li>
<li>
<span>Lots of shit changes after middle school. You’re </span><em><span>never</span></em><span> as horny as you were in middle school. </span>
</li>
<ol>
<li><span>Even Richie.</span></li>
<li><span>Though he wasn't 100% confident that was true.</span></li>
</ol>
<li><span>Basing a life-altering decision on the content of dreams was, at its core, stupid.</span></li>
</ol><p>
  <span>He’d argue it wasn’t about the dreams, though the dreams definitely gave everything a Magic 8 Ball, all-signs-point-to-yes justification to the last 12 hours of obsessive thoughts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the end, it came back to: Eddie just really, really wanted to have sex with Richie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Around dinnertime, the wind began to pick up and the sky began to darken. Richie threw his phone down and said, “I guess that screws our plans to grill again tonight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>‘Our</span>
  </em>
  <span> plans to grill?’” Eddie said to Richie, who was slouched into the couch cushions, legs stretched out in front of him, looking every bit the man of leisure.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I paid for the groceries, dude. I’m basically the founder of the feast. Also I feel like you wouldn’t let me anywhere near the grill at this point. You and the grill are basically one now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The problem, Eddie realized, was that he and Richie were more alike than even the Losers openly acknowledged. Both he and Richie had difficulties with impulse control. Eddie imagined he would have learned, if he’d stuck it out in talk therapy for longer than three sessions every three to four years, the root of his own problems were being an only child who lost a parent at a very young age, then was raised in an environment of constant unseen danger, frustrated and smothered to the point of madness. So usually, when he was given an opportunity to be himself or to talk to another human who wasn’t managing his every breath, he simply exploded, releasing every single thought filling his mind every millisecond he had them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh, and he was so angry. So, so angry all the time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie did </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> seem angry, at least not on the surface. But it was clear now to Eddie that Richie was angry a lot too. And Richie was anxious, frustrated, and smothered, not by parents but by something Eddie had only begun to understand about his best friend over the course of the last 24 to 48 hours. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie worried and complained. Richie joked. They both did it so much and so loud and without thought and without direction or plan. But together. Chaotically aligned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No wonder neither of them had been willing to risk shattering that symbiosis at 13.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Decades later, this entire line of thought resulted in “I’ve been dreaming about you, Rich...pretty much every night,” falling out of Eddie’s face before he could catch it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In response, Richie appeared to teeter, almost like he was going to turn a somersault off the couch in a shocked pratfall. He righted himself and straightened his shoulders in an almost military rigidity. “What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I said…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, not ‘I didn’t hear you’ What. That was a What of the What the Fuck variety.” Richie cleaned his glasses on his shirt and put them back on, the better, Eddie supposed, to examine Eddie’s face for any clue for the subject change. “Weren’t we just about to argue about dinner? What’s this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie plowed forward as though this discussion had always been the plan. “I told you about how the kissing bridge was in my dreams every night, and you said you stopped there a few weeks ago.” Eddie paused, then asked, with a rush of clarity, “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Why</span>
  </em>
  <span> did you stop there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blushing was not common for Richie--why would he ever blush when he had absolutely zero sense of shame?--but Eddie could’ve sworn Richie was a slightly more dusty rose color than usual. And, also uncharacteristically, Richie seemed flummoxed into total silence.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie continued, “There was a dream I had after you brought that muffin…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That you didn’t eat. That was six dollars.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There’s no way that was six bucks, Rich. That’s a Manhattan price. That coffee shop would’ve closed a year ago if they were charging six bucks. Stop exaggerating.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>distinctly</span>
  </em>
  <span> remember because…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie cut him off. “After you brought me that muffin, I remembered the time you gave me a </span>
  <em>
    <span>Return of the Jedi</span>
  </em>
  <span> Valentine in Ms. Wilkes’ homeroom. You threw it on the table the same way, like it wasn’t a big deal, because you’re always trying to be so cool.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>‘Trying</span>
  </em>
  <span>?’”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And that night, I dreamt I was trying to say something to you but… I’m pretty sure I was bleeding out of my mouth. And then I was in my bedroom, and your Hot Wheels sleeping bag was out, and I had a...card that had our initials on it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he had done in Bassey in front of the Bunyan statue, Richie stopped breathing for a few seconds. Then he repeated, “Our initials.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop repeating things I’m saying, you dipshit! The kissing bridge… Rich, if I were to go out there </span>
  <em>
    <span>right now</span>
  </em>
  <span>...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t…” Richie’s voice seemed to snag somewhere deep in his chest. After he took a breath, he continued, “Eddie, we’re dangerously close to a point of no return here. There’s no unringing this particular bell if we… if </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> get really real about shit.”</span>
</p><p><span>Eddie had never believed something as strongly in his life as he did when he said, “</span><em><span>Fuck</span></em> <em><span>you </span></em><span>and your bell. I would like to think my entire existence is proof you can unring a bell. But that’s not the point. I’m trying to </span><em><span>tell </span></em><span>you something about </span><em><span>me</span></em><span>, if you’d listen. You were reading that stupid book yesterday, and I thought to myself, ‘That reminds me of something.’ You stole one of my mom’s… historical fictions, and you read a whole sex scene when we were supposed to be sleeping. Do you remember that?”</span></p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, sure, I…” Richie’s swallowed hard, “... yeah, I remember that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie took another step so that he was arm’s length from Richie. “You know what I remembered as you were sitting there reading about some stupid fertility ceremony last night? After reading about that Viking sex way back in middle school, you thought I was asleep, and you jerked off in your sleeping bag.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bullshit, I did not.” Richie’s voice was colorless.</span>
</p><p><span>“Rich, I think I’d know the sound of jerking off in a sleeping bag. It’s</span> <span>not like it was a new sound to me.”</span></p><p>
  <span>Richie remained conspicuously silent.</span>
</p><p><span>“And I remembered… okay, let’s say, after you </span><em><span>hypothetically</span></em><span> jerked off, then went to sleep, that </span><em><span>hypothetically</span></em><span> I did the same thing.You know, not in a sleeping bag. In my bed. Listening to you breathe and thinking about you jerking off and saying a bunch of sex words. To me. And then last </span><em><span>night</span></em><span>,</span> <span>after you stumbled out of your room in your goddamn underwear, I had to stop working on the puzzle and go </span><em><span>upstairs </span></em><span>and…”</span></p><p>
  <span>It took Eddie’s brain a second or two to register he had stopped delivering the next paragraph of his extemporaneous state of the union. Instead, he was breathing into Richie’s mouth. Richie was kissing Eddie. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Deeply</span>
  </em>
  <span> kissing him, like he was relying on Eddie for his life’s breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie had tried to prepare multiple scenarios, but he hadn’t counted on a kiss like that. And when Richie pulled away and took a quarter step back, Eddie unintentionally blurted, “No, wait,” with a fist still clenched in the front of Richie’s shirt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re going to be real sorry about all of this, dumbass,” Richie said, removing his glasses and setting them on the coffee table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rain began to spatter the patio doors, and Eddie tugged Richie forward.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie was </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> hot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After he’d been pushed backwards onto the couch--one of the evening’s many surprises was how </span>
  <em>
    <span>strong</span>
  </em>
  <span> Eddie was--he and Eddie had spent several minutes on intensive making out, keeping it all mostly over the clothes (with the exception of the hand that Richie had slipped up the back of Eddie’s shirt, the dream of touching those sharp shoulder blades underneath finally a reality).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But without verbal consultation, Eddie had decided to switch gears around Minute 6 and was currently straddling him, knees on either side of Richie’s hip bones, pinning him to the suede couch, grinding down with a punishing determination. And as much as Richie was into the way Eddie was breathing, heavy and ragged, into his ear, and definitely into the way Eddie was, with single-minded focus, grinding his dick into Richie’s, he was also concerned that he would either have a heat stroke or come in his pants like a dumb kid. Or both.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An extended rumble of thunder cued Richie to finally call for a time out. “Okay, just… hold up for a second. Dismount. Get… okay, don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>get off</span>
  </em>
  <span> but… stop.” Richie twisted his hips and pushed so that he could dislodge himself and stand up. As a result, Eddie ended in a sort of half-seated, half-prone twist, wild-eyed, chest rising and falling as though he’d finished running a wind sprint. “You maniac. Jesus, it’s like being on the surface of the sun. Can we please adjourn to your bedroom for the remainder of this hump session?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie’s face suggested ambivalence, as did the grumbly sort of humming noise he made in the back of his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let me make it easier on you: I’m not coming in my pants, and you, my friend, are going to be the one to figure out how to get jizz out of suede so that we can keep the deposit on this place.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie sternly said, “Rich.” Then after another reluctant moment, he heaved, “Ben and </span>
  <em>
    <span>Bev…</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie smirked and began walking backwards to the door. “You little monster, I’m not going to walk 40 feet, when I can walk 10. Besides, we’re going to do it, like, a million times better than them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another rumble of thunder sounded, closer and followed by several flickers of lightning, and finally Eddie rose from the couch (with some difficulty) and said, “Ugh. And also: stop calling me ‘little.’”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aye, aye, cap’n. ‘Monster’ you’re fine with. Got it.” Richie replied, allowing Eddie to shove him through the open bedroom door. “What was it you were saying about last night? And my goddamn underwear?” In short order, Richie shucked off his tee, peeled down his track pants, and removed his socks by stepping on the toe of each sock and yanking backwards. Eddie surged forward, clearly intent on another push that would knock Richie flat on his back. Richie countered by Heisman-Trophying him away with one arm, the first time he’d benefitted all evening for being the taller one. “You cool your jets, Kaspbrak. How’s about you take a seat?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grabbing Eddie by the shoulders, Richie drove him to the edge of the bed and pushed him down. Eddie’s response was immediately to reach out a hand towards the protrusion in Richie’s boxer briefs; with a quick swat, Richie slapped Eddie’s hand away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span> “Rich, come on already.” Frustration crackled in Eddie’s voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is this why you were so spooky this morning?” Richie asked, kneeling down, hooking his thumbs and pointer fingers into the waistband of Eddie’s track pants. “Because you’re all super-charged for boning?” Eddie raised his hips and Richie stripped his pants off and threw them in the general direction of the bathroom door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I tell you something, you have to </span>
  <em>
    <span>promise</span>
  </em>
  <span> not to be a dick about it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie knew Eddie’s wound-up, defensive tone when he heard it. He stuck a couple of fingers into Eddie’s left crew sock and ran them slowly down to the knob of bone in his ankle. “I have self-destructive tendencies but I’m not a fucking moron. I’m committed to seeing you naked, so cross my heart and hope to die… oof, scratch that, but… you get the idea. Out with it. “</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reaching out to splay his hands across both Richie’s shoulders, Eddie said, “I haven’t had sex in over a year. I’ve been thinking about it for days. I can’t actually remember the last time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t mention his wife, stupid. Don’t say anything about his wife.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Peeling one sock off, then the other, then placing Eddie’s left knee over his right shoulder--which caused Eddie to shiver in a way that sent a bolt of heat straight to Richie’s groin--he said, “I can’t believe I’m about to say this but: I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>way </span>
  </em>
  <span>more patient than you, ‘cause I’ve been waiting for this off and on for my entire postadolescent life. So calm down and consider the drought over. You’re definitely getting laid. But...we should talk about a few things first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Dude</span>
  </em>
  <span>…” Eddie unhooked his leg from Richie and let it thump down to the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie put his hand on Eddie’s face, rubbing his thumb across the sharp angle of his jaw and kissed him a few times, short and gentle and meant to communicate that he cared, for chrissake, and wasn’t doing all this talking to be a tease. Eddie eventually untensed, melted a little and returned Richie’s kisses at Richie’s pace. “There he is,” Richie breathed into the hollow of Eddie’s neck. Pulling back to ostensibly see Eddie’s face (a near impossibility without his glasses), Richie asked, “Eds, I gotta know: is this the first time you’re doing all this with a guy?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie curled his fingers into the edge of the mattress. “I mean… not the first time. I guess it… depends on what your definition of a ‘time’ is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Playfully shoving at Eddie’s shoulder, Richie teased, “Well, you tart?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I made out with a couple of guys while I was in college.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Uh-huh, and when you say ‘made out?’ Put it in terms of bases so your old friend Richard Tozier can understand more clearly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Um… third? I guess?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How many?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Richie, can we just… it was a couple of handjobs and a blowjob, okay? I don’t know. The blowjob sort of… freaked me out and I… stopped doing</span>
  <em>
    <span> that</span>
  </em>
  <span> with guys...after that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One assumes you were the blowee not the blower.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jesus, this is fucking mortifying… </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not trying to </span>
  <em>
    <span>mortify </span>
  </em>
  <span>you, dummy. I’m establishing parameters and expectations. That shit is important. For example, I can’t just stuff my dick in your mouth and expect a miracle.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, and meanwhile, you’re some kind of certified expert in dick sucking?” Eddie said combatively.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eds, I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>gay</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Like, 100% into dudes all day, every day. I’ve got </span>
  <em>
    <span>years</span>
  </em>
  <span> of on-the-blowjob experience. So yes, I’m a certified expert in dick sucking. One might call it the confirmed bachelor’s degree in the oral arts.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie punched Richie on the shoulder. “Stop trying to be funny.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Never. I’ll never ever stop being--</span>
  <em>
    <span>being!--</span>
  </em>
  <span>funny. So… I think it’s safe to say between this being your intermediate course in sex with a dude, and I’m bringing you out--pun semi-intended--of several levels of retirement, not to </span>
  <em>
    <span>mention</span>
  </em>
  <span> we don’t have condoms, it’s safe to say a few things are off the menu tonight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie hitched his knee to Richie’s shoulder once again and said, in a near whisper, “I’ve got condoms.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Putting on the voice of Vivian Leigh in </span>
  <em>
    <span>Gone With The Wind</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Richie gasped, “Why, Mr. Kaspbrak, I do </span>
  <em>
    <span>declare</span>
  </em>
  <span>! My </span>
  <em>
    <span>stars</span>
  </em>
  <span>! And when did you procure those, pray tell?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When we stopped at the store today. When I said I was getting the </span>
  <em>
    <span>New York Times</span>
  </em>
  <span> at the customer service desk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You crafty little pervert…” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie’s responded by showering a few quick open-handed smacks in the general direction of Richie’s face and arms. “Stop… calling… me… </span>
  <em>
    <span>little</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>jerk</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grabbing Eddie’s arm before he could rain down another blow, Richie shouted, “Ow! Ow! Okay, stop! I give, I give!” They spent the next few moments in a faux wrestling match, which seemed more of an excuse for the two of them to equally paw each other. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Richie returned to his earlier tactic of kissing Eddie’s face and mouth, trying to get him to center again, Eddie sighed contentedly and, in a voice about a quarter of an octave lower than Richie’d ever heard him speak before, said, “I’m so glad you stayed. Thank you for staying.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie caught himself before saying the unguarded, sappy thing he wanted to say, which was, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eddie, I’m never going to leave you again.</span>
  </em>
  <span> It was probably a little early for that. Instead he said, “Yeah, I’m glad too. Very glad.” He punctuated the last bit by running a hand up Eddie’s inner thigh. “I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>definitely</span>
  </em>
  <span> going to give you a couple of hickeys here, if that’s okay. One last thing before we wrap up talk time: even with condoms, I think we should… still keep a couple of things off the table. All right? I mean, you’re seeing all those doctors tomorrow, and I want the reason you can’t walk right to be Pennywise-related and not me-related.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie ran a thumb between Richie’s lower lip and chin. “And I’m the pervert?” Looking directly at Richie, all pupils like a burrow owl, he asked, “After all your bragging, a blowjob is definitely </span>
  <em>
    <span>on </span>
  </em>
  <span>the menu, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yep, just remember to rate me on Yelp afterward. And Grindr.” Richie started to tug the bottom of Eddie’s shirt upwards; Eddie put a hand over Richie's and stopped him. “What’s up?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The scar on my chest is… it’s gross. I just...wanted to warn you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sighing, Richie kissed Eddie’s hand and wrist, then his mouth a few times for good measure. “Thanks for being thoughtful, pal, but one, without my glasses, I can barely see basic shapes, and two--and most importantly--that thing could be covered in chewed-up gum, duct tape, dirty old chunks of plywood, and a Pennywise Lives tattoo, and it’d still be fucking gorgeous because it means your spine is in one piece and you are breathing with two lungs and have a heartbeat and all that other critical shit to being alive. Okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quietly, Eddie said, “Yes. Thanks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re welcome. Can I please take your fucking shirt off now so I can see these weirdly tight muscles you’ve been hiding?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie chuckled. “I got really into interval training a few years ago. I even did Crossfit for a few months. It’s stupid but it works, y’know?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nope, I don’t know at all. You and Ben will have to start a blog, because there’s a definite lack of talk about all this shit on the Internet </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> in the gay community that I stand on the fringe of.” Richie yanked Eddie’s shirt over his head, hinged Eddie’s knee over his shoulder again, and, as promised, began to give Eddie a hickey on his inner thigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rich, do you hear that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The two of them were face to face, upright on their knees in the center of the bed, greedily pressed against one another. Eddie was certain Richie couldn’t hear, since his face was buried in the top of Eddie’s head and he was very preoccupied with frantically moving his </span>
  <em>
    <span>very</span>
  </em>
  <span> large right hand between them in a mutual handjob that Eddie had to admit was pretty impressive. Mechanics-wise </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>sensation-wise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"</span>
  <em>
    <span>Rich</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie’s reply was to drop down and put his mouth over Eddie’s in a sort of lamprey-type kiss. Finally, after popping his lips off Eddie with an obscene smack, he breathed “Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie’s concentration broke a little as Richie rocked against him. “Do you </span>
  <em>
    <span>hear </span>
  </em>
  <span>that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You mean the fucking angels singing? Yeah, buddy, I hear it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie snarled as best he could, “No, </span>
  <em>
    <span>stupid</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it sounds like the tornado siren.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clearly in his own world, Richie whispered, “Tell me about last night again. Come on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie knit his brow together. “What, when I jerked off in the bathroom?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie nodded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span> Eddie thought </span>
  <em>
    <span>that’s definitely the tornado siren</span>
  </em>
  <span> and said, “I thought about getting into bed with you and putting my hand down your… oh.” Richie tightened his grip on Eddie, pumping faster.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And drunkenly, Eddie thought </span>
  <em>
    <span>Who gives a fuck if that’s the tornado siren? I </span>
  </em>
  <span>hope</span>
  <em>
    <span> there’s a tornado</span>
  </em>
  <span> and began moving urgently against Richie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Afterward, they lay on the bed like two shipwreck survivors washed up on a beach, comforter kicked to the floor, flat sheet distributed amongst them in a tangle. They each had their own side of the bed, but Richie had one of his legs draped across Eddie’s, his elbow linked around Eddie’s forearm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“God, I’m hungry,” Eddie said in a voice so contrarily heavy and sated Richie smirked with pride.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I guess we forgot about dinner.” Absentmindedly, he stroked his fingertips up and down Eddie’s wrist and palm. Then he laughed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You called your mom’s books ‘historical fictions.’ That’s hilarious.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie groaned. “Don’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your mom read </span>
  <em>
    <span>porn</span>
  </em>
  <span>. That shit was the real deal too. That’s the first place I learned about the importance of lubrication.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"That didn't stop you from giving yourself a dry one in the sleeping bag 30 years ago."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'll have you know a sleeping bag’s silky lining is a boy's best friend. It's practically made of Astroglide."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dragging a hand across his face in frustrated disgust, Eddie groaned, “Shut the fuck </span>
  <em>
    <span>up</span>
  </em>
  <span> already about my mom and those books. Despite all the stuff I said a few minutes ago, you are the worst person I know. Possibly in the whole world."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, that’s hurtful, because I think you’re great,” Richie replied up towards the ceiling. “In fact, I’m crazy about you. Like honest-to-God Henry Bowers In Memoriam Award for Most Crazy crazy about you.” He paused. “I kinda wish I hadn’t said that. Now I’m going to have a nightmare about carving into that fucker’s head.” Then he turned his head. “On the other hand, we have him to thank for this gorgeous cosmetic addition to your elfin face,” he said, lifting a hand and tracing the scar on Eddie’s cheek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, great, just what I always wanted.” Eddie pushed Richie’s hand away without malice, a hint of a smile around the corners of his lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You know what I thought when I saw that? ‘Adorably badass.’ Shit, that should be the title of your autobiography: </span>
  <em>
    <span>Adorably Badass: The Eddie Kaspbrak Story</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For the last fucking time, Richie, could you </span>
  <em>
    <span>please</span>
  </em>
  <span> not talk about me like I’m a Pound Puppy? I’m 40 years old. It was annoying enough when I was a kid but now it’s extra stupid.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rolling over to prop his head on his elbow, Richie made a production out of a thorough review of Eddie’s face. “Oh, my </span>
  <em>
    <span>God.</span>
  </em>
  <span> That’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>it!</span>
  </em>
  <span> The big brown eyes, the plush fur…” Richie paused to ruffle Eddie’s head, where his normally orderly hair had sprung out in unruly waves, then the patch of chest hair on his sternum, then the trail on his stomach and beyond, which earned him a smacked hand and an elbow to the ribs. “Eds, I know it’s a little early for requests but: would you consider wearing a collar?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck off and no, in that order, you degenerate.” Eddie then gently swam the back of his hand around Richie's chest. “Besides you’re one to talk about ‘plush fur.’ When did all this shit arrive?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In my dissolute 20s while I was giving all those blowjobs.” He watched as Eddie continued petting him; he found it oddly soothing, and that, in turn, sent an unexpected surge of sentimentalism through him. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Eddie likes this</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thought. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He likes me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>With impeccable timing, Eddie turned onto his elbow, moved in closer and slid his hand up to Richie’s face, looking at him with such unguarded fondness that Richie worried the bubble of emotion in his chest might burst and cause him to start bawling. Then Eddie leaned forward and kissed him tenderly. “I… think you’re great too, you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Swallowing down the lump in his throat with Herculean effort, Richie muttered, “Jesus… warn a guy before you get all sappy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie kissed him again. “Just do me a favor and don’t tell </span>
  <em>
    <span>you </span>
  </em>
  <span>I feel that way. You’re fucking insufferable.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Throwing his arms around Eddie in a half-headlock, half-hug, Richie laughed.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. And Once We Start The Meter Clicks</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which the storm foretold in the original Stephen King novel arrives in Derry, but it stems from the power of love. And probably also righteous fury.</p><p>Also Richie and Eddie eat some pizza rolls.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“Holy shit, it </span>
  <em>
    <span>hailed</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Looking out the patio door, Eddie could see scatterings of quarter-sized ice pellets on the deck and in the lawn.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Huh, I wonder why we didn’t notice that,” Richie said dryly from the kitchen as he rattled around one of the cupboards and extracted an old blackened jelly roll pan, onto which he dumped a family-sized bag of Totino’s pizza rolls, then a box of cauliflower-crust “pizza rolls,” shaking the pan so they settled into a single layer. “You’ll be able to tell the cauliflower crust ones because they look like they suck,” he told Eddie and an invisible studio audience, holding the pan at a perfect, camera-friendly demo angle. After shoving the pan into the preheated oven, he then dropped a bowl full of blackberries and raspberries on the counter. “Before you ask: yes, I washed them. Yes, thoroughly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stood at the kitchen island in companionable silence, eating berries and waiting on the pizza rolls. Richie paused, leaned over and picked up a piece of the puzzle and plunked it into place in the shimmering Kinkadian sky. He looked at Eddie with a self-satisfied smirk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rolling his eyes, Eddie groused, “Hypocrite.” After watching Richie eat a handful of berries like popcorn, he said thoughtfully, “I can learn how to give a good blowjob.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Struck by a fit of surprised coughing, Richie poured himself a glass of water from the tap and took a few sips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Defiant and a little resentful, Eddie scowled, “I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>serious.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>know </span>
  </em>
  <span>you’re serious. I’m not fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>new </span>
  </em>
  <span>here. I have no doubt you’re already on the path to top-shelf hummers. I just feel really bad for the guy who is going to have to put up with your relentless research and practice BJs. What a </span>
  <em>
    <span>chore.</span>
  </em>
  <span>” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jackass.” Watching Richie wander aimlessly around the kitchen waiting on the timer, Eddie imagined pressing Richie against the dishwasher, then sinking to his knees. He filed that away as a pretty solid idea. “So… what happens after pizza rolls?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie leaned against the kitchen island and crossed his arms against his bare chest. “I don’t know. Watch </span>
  <em>
    <span>Empire Strikes Back?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Trade comics? Prank call Bill and Mike?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ha fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>ha</span>
  </em>
  <span>. But really…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know. I kinda figured I’d take a bunch of Tums so I don’t get heartburn in the middle of the night, pop a prescription sleeping pill, and call it. I’m tired, man. You wore me out.” Richie popped one eyebrow. “Are you politely asking me if you can give me a rookie blowjob?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, Jesus, could you knock it off for five seconds? I’m talking about… sleeping… arrangements.” Eddie trailed off, suddenly miserably uncomfortable asking Richie for what he wanted. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I want to be near you pretty much always now. Isn’t that strange? I usually fucking hate sharing space with other humans but I want to crawl inside you like a tauntaun.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie seemed to be in a generous mood and only gave Eddie a little bit of a hard time about it. “Well, I didn’t bring my sleeping bag, so I sort of assumed I could crash with you in our sex bed. Sorry, our sex bed </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>Bev and Ben’s sex bed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie felt like he was going to combust with relief. “I wasn’t sure. You know, you’re not married.” He paused, the reference to marriage making him grimace; Richie politely said nothing. “Maybe you’re not used to sharing or don’t like to share. I don’t know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I mean, usually I kick guys out as soon as I can, but I’ll make a special exception for you since you threw a javelin through a bloated clown monster for me. At least that’s what Bill tells me you did. Also if I can’t stand being around you, I’ll go to my sad bedroom in the basement. You know, the one with a double bed that no grown man can comfortably sleep in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unable to resist the opportunity, Eddie smugly asked, “You sounded like you were sleeping soundly a few days ago. Either that or running an old chainsaw all night. Do you have sleep apnea?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yep, and it’s communicable. Sorry, pal, you can catch it even when you wear a condom so you’ve got it now too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re so fucking annoying.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm-hmm.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The timer beeped. Richie grabbed a ratty multicolored potholder, took the pizza rolls out of the oven, and set them on the stovetop. “I know they’re volcanically hot, and I know I shouldn’t eat one right now, but I’m going to anyway.” Richie popped one in his mouth, then huffed in pain. “Jesus fucking Christ, they’re hot.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, genius.” Eddie walked over and admired the little pillows of lard and tomato sauce magma. “I haven’t had pizza rolls in years. Decades, probably. These were my favorite.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I remember.” Richie reached out, his fingertips brushing against Eddie’s waist and hip. “I used to get the biggest charge out of watching you nibble at one like a mouse and then go fucking nuts, Pac-Man style, on, like, ten in a row.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re so weird,” Eddie muttered to the floor. “You know what would go great with this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hold that thought,” Richie said, opening the fridge door. He grabbed something and, using his broad shoulders and back as a privacy screen, hid it from view, “You didn’t happen to be thinking of…” With a flourish, Richie turned and revealed a gallon jug of fluorescent orange drink.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Holy shit, they still make Sunny D? That shit wasn’t banned by the FDA?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why would it be? It’s full of </span>
  <em>
    <span>vitamins</span>
  </em>
  <span>, man.” Richie poured two glasses and pushed one across the island to Eddie. “100% of your daily dose of Vitamin C. Right there on the bottle. You fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>love</span>
  </em>
  <span> vitamins.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie took a sip, feeling the sludgy consistency coat his mouth. “Urck, it tastes like someone melted a bunch of orange push-ups.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie was busy draining his glass. “Oh, fuck yeah it does.” He surveyed Eddie’s glass, still nearly full to the brim. “Come on, you’re a growing boy. Drink up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie took another sip, made another “Urck”-type sound and said, “I think I need to eat some pizza rolls before I have any more of this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie brought the jelly roll pan over to the island and placed it on a ceramic tile. He and Eddie made quick work of the still-scalding pizza rolls. Eddie both braved eating the Totino’s, which he knew he’d regret in the morning, and managed to finish his glass of Sunny D, convincing himself it wasn’t any worse than drinking barium for a CT scan. Then Richie produced a bottle of Tums and proffered them to Eddie. “After-dinner mint?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie took two, grateful that Richie had the good sense to prepare for the inevitable stomach discomfort from a metric ton of sodium bombs, even if he was still reckless enough to eat a fresh-from-the-oven pizza roll. “Brushing our teeth after drinking Sunny D, then chewing up a bunch of antacids is going to be terrible.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Speaking of, I gotta run downstairs to do that, plus grab my Ambien. But before I miss this opportunity,” Richie grabbed Eddie roughly and gave him a particularly vigorous open-mouthed kiss. “There. Now I know what you would’ve tasted like during a sleepover. Also, are you going to wear a shirt anytime we’re not in the dark or I have my glasses on? Jesus, even chunky little Ben Haystack went shirtless back in the day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Squirming out of Richie’s embrace, Eddie grumbled, “I told you… that scar is gross.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Relentless, Richie draped his arms over Eddie like climbing vines, wrapping them over and through and around Eddie’s arms and back, countering every attempt Eddie made to keep Richie off him. “And </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> told </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> who gives a shit? The clock on getting to do whatever you want to do just because you died a couple of weeks ago is running out, Eduardo. Enjoy it while it lasts.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Using every ounce of his core strength, Eddie planted his feet and pushed Richie back into the kitchen wall. “Ugh, get </span>
  <em>
    <span>off</span>
  </em>
  <span> me. And I’m not ‘doing everything I want to do’ just because I want to wear a shirt while we’re eating pizza rolls. I’m sorry I don’t want to pepper our food with a freaking Burt Reynolds mat of chest hair like you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Man, you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> into this, aren’t you?” Richie ran his hands along his frame like he was a </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Price is Right</span>
  </em>
  <span> model showing off a brand-new car.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re a pain in the ass.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As he departed for the master bath, Richie called after him, “Blowjob tryouts are </span>
  <em>
    <span>cancelled</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And I am serious about that, mister!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie flossed and brushed his teeth, took a half-dose of his prescribed pain med and a few melatonin gummies--he didn’t seem to need the big guns lately--took a leak, washed his hands, and returned to the bedroom. The bed was a mess, so Eddie reassembled it, then stood nervously waiting on Richie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Richie did reappear, he was back down to his boxer briefs, which, combined with the lingering smell of sex in the room, gave Eddie a visceral jolt of arousal. Taking in the made bed with pinched impatience, Richie groused, “Why aren’t you in bed already?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was waiting for you!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All right, don’t fucking yell at me, you grouch. I just figured since you’re in charge of everything else you would assign our sleeping arrangement.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“At least admit that I’m in charge of everything because I’m good at being in charge of everything and not </span>
  <em>
    <span>just</span>
  </em>
  <span> because I died for a little bit,” Eddie said with no small degree of self-satisfaction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, when you put it that way…” Richie walked into the living room, switched off the lamps, then returned and switched off the bedroom’s main light. “...where do you want me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just get into bed, you jerk-off.” Peeling back the comforter and top sheet on the side closest to him, Eddie sidled into the bed. Richie closely followed suit, setting his phone down on the side table and switching the lamp off. Eddie turned on his side to face Richie. “You’re going to drive me fucking insane one day.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie acknowledged this with a hammily executed nod of affirmation. “But we’ll have a lot of fun before that inevitable sad end. If you’re real good at the doctor tomorrow, I’ll teach you all about prostate massage. And maybe I’ll let you teach me how to golf.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pressing his head down into his pillow, Eddie smiled. “Really?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mostly so I can pretend the clubs are either lightsabers or my dick, but yes, really.” Nestling closer, he slid a bare leg between Eddie’s. “But I’m hoping you’ll do me a favor tomorrow morning.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d really appreciate it if you’d give me a handjob while we’re in the shower.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The furrow between Eddie's eyebrows flickered on, his lips pressed together to keep from smiling. “Sure.” Then, “I’d be a bad friend if I didn’t tell you I’m getting the better deal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie chuckled. A few quiet moments passed, then, “Eds?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can I put my hand on your chest? Under your shirt?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie paused, unsure. “Are you serious?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. Very.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>After a few more moments, Eddie decided to be brave. “Okay.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Under the covers, Richie slipped his hand under the hem of Eddie’s tee and slid up over the scar tissue on Eddie’s torso until he found the rhythm beating just below his breastbone. Then he emitted a shaky sigh that hinted at tears.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rich, come on.” Slipping an arm out of the covers, Eddie ran it through Richie’s hair a few times, then gave it a rough tousle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, fine. I’m just...glad.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Covering Richie’s hand with his, feeling his own heartbeat through the dozens of bones in Richie’s hand, Eddie responded, “Imagine how I feel.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie laughed, which made Eddie laugh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I want you here with me, Eds. From tonight until the end of time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Christ.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should know…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everywhere I go, everything I do, I do it for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Those are two different songs, you bonehead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie wrapped his other arm around Eddie, rested his chin on the crown of his head, and said, “Siri, play ‘(Everything I Do) I Do It For You.’”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And around the time the song segued into its soaring instrumental break, Eddie fell asleep, his cheek pressed against Richie’s sternum.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie’s recalled Eddie’s question about the tornado siren as they walked out into the short driveway to climb into Richie’s rental, a reasonable and comfortable Toyota Corolla that had long replaced the Mustang. “I guess the storm last night was...bad,” he said, pointing out the branches and leaves scattered across the yard, a few tree branches up and down the short one-way street snapped and dangling towards the earth.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I told you I heard the siren!” Eddie said triumphantly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I just thought it was you being… you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie shot him a glance from the driver’s seat. “Have you </span>
  <em>
    <span>met</span>
  </em>
  <span> you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, fuck off, the thunderstorm the first night made you nervous too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not as nervous as you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The bickering continued along the same line until they were stopped short in town by a Derry Police uniform detouring them off Up Mile Hill by the library. Just over the young man’s shoulder, Richie and Eddie could see the reason for the re-route: an eighteen-wheeler had been thrown into the storefront that was once Center Street Drug.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Holy fuck,” Eddie said from the passenger seat. He looked to Richie, whose mouth hung slightly ajar in shock.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ayup,” the uniform said. “Tornado touched down in the park, then skipped around and did that,” pointing to the semi. “Seems like that wore it out. Good news is no casualties… unless you count ol’ Paul.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That awoke Richie from his shock. “Wait, </span>
  <em>
    <span>what</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They drove as close to Bassey Park as they could, then walked to the edge of the grounds, where several other townspeople had gathered. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Bunyan statue had been ripped from its pedestal and thrown into the bandshell, which was half-collapsed on top of Bunyan’s large, hollow head. His legs jutted out, but were misshapen, the metal frame twisted and broken as though someone had wrung him like a towel, bits of his fiberglass pants sprayed over the grounds.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wow,” Eddie said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The good news is,” Richie said, after a significant pause, “we have an alibi.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie turned cartoonishly wide eyes to him. “Rich…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I get your meaning. Probably not great it’s because we were having sex with each other.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Rich…</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wonder which town monuments we can destroy next with our fucking.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dude, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please</span>
  </em>
  <span>. This is freaking me out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie put a steadying arm around Eddie’s shoulders. “It’s okay, Eds. It’s okay. Don’t get all wound up before your doctor’s appointment.” He took in a deep breath and lied his fucking ass off. “I’m sure this has nothing to do with us. It’s just weather and science and… all that shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dr. </span>
  <span>Entragian reviewed Eddie’s vitals, asking questions about his recovery from his phantom injuries. Eddie gave her the rundown--blood pressure was steady; pain had largely subsided; sleeping pretty well overall; only one asthma attack so far (he figured he’d tackle the panic attack in a separate conversation); drank Sunny D for the first time in decades and convinced all my teeth are going to fall out; going for a walk yesterday seemed to go well, didn’t feel like tipping over at any point. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>While Eddie tried to determine how best to ask the question “Hey, unrelated to any of this but how much longer until a friend of mine can, for non-medical reasons, stick a couple of fingers in my ass?” the doctor dragged his new chest x-ray to the larger of the two monitors.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Seems like those benign bone growths along your sternum have shrunk a little since you were admitted, and the places that appeared to be healing fractures look good.” While pointing out the various places where Eddie’s bones had stitched themselves back together, Dr. Entragian made a thoughtful doctor-type “Hmm” noise.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Adrenaline immediately flooded through Eddie. “What? What is it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, nothing of concern. It just… it almost looks like a letter ‘R’ here.” Scooting over on her wheeled stool so that Eddie had full visibility of the monitor, she used her pen to point out the place. “An uppercase R. Huh. Anyway, before I send you off for your labs, do you have any questions for me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie kept looking at the x-ray, gnawing at a corner of his mouth. “Could I get a copy of this? To take with me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie had finished his Coke Zero and was contemplating a return trip to the vending machines when Eddie appeared, his brisk pace and serious expression an immediate warning sign that more fuckery was afoot. “Hey, what’s up? Are you okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie stopped walking but continued radiating charge-forward energy. “Yeah, I’m fine. I think you and I need to make a detour before we go back to the cottage, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie rose from his chair, which prompted Eddie to immediately begin walking towards the exit. “Sure, fine. Hey, not to be all one-track-mind, but did you ask about…” Richie delicately slid a pointer finger in and out of his fisted left hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Distractedly, Eddie replied, “No, but it’s fine. We can do whatever we want.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m going to regret being this guy but: are you sure? You’re usually pretty into doctor’s orders.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Can we talk about this after we stop at the bridge?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The bridge? What? Why?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie stopped short where the sidewalk met the circular drive in front of the hospital. It gave Richie a jolt of </span>
  <span>déjà vu to stand where they had just been days before. Then Eddie had been hesitant to head back into Derry proper; now he was practically running towards it, and it was Richie who wanted to stand still.</span>
  <span> Eddie’s eyes were gleaming with impatience, but he also looked very much like he did in the dark of the bedroom the night before: unguarded, affectionate. “Dude, seriously? Are you really going to get </span>
  <em>
    <span>bashful</span>
  </em>
  <span>? You’ve apparently been hot for me for a million years.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As strange as it felt to be discussing all of their private business out in the open, Richie was comforted by the fact that the two of them could crush buildings if they really wanted to. “I’m not being </span>
  <em>
    <span>bashful.</span>
  </em>
  <span> And don’t make it sound like this is a one-way street. You nearly suffocated me during that dry humping event on the couch. It’d just be helpful if you’d tell me what has you all fired up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’ll make more sense when we’re there, I promise. Didn’t you basically put me in charge of everything last night?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie snorted. “I’m seriously regretting that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I bet. Come on, let’s go, </span>
  <em>
    <span>let’s go.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a short drive to the bridge, and Richie parked where he had the day he was preparing to leave Derry for good. He and Eddie walked over to the guardrail, and Richie pointed out the initials.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie squatted down and ran his fingers over the indents in the wood. “When did you do this?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He looked back to find Richie scratching at the nape of his neck, doing everything short of shyly toeing the gravel with his Chuck Taylors. “Mmm, I guess it was…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stop playing coy, you jerk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine. It was ‘89. It was after your mom said you couldn’t hang out anymore, right after the first time at Neibolt and you broke your arm. I was hanging out at the theater almost every day playing </span>
  <em>
    <span>Street Fighter, </span>
  </em>
  <span>which is all I </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanted</span>
  </em>
  <span> to do that summer, as you’ll recall. But then you were gone, and it just felt fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>tragic,</span>
  </em>
  <span> man. I know we weren’t...</span>
  <em>
    <span>you know</span>
  </em>
  <span>… but it felt shitty. My heart was broken.” Richie paused and crouched down near Eddie. “Then one day Bowers called me a fag in front of, like, twenty kids in the lobby of the Capitol. Everything sort of made terrible sense all at once. Like, why Bowers was always picking on me and why I was so fucking angry and sad after I was all horned up, which was </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> the time. And so…” Richie waved his hands at the initials. “Ta-da,” he finished weakly. "I gave it a little touch up before heading out of town. And then 30 minutes later, Mike called."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie stood and offered his hand to Richie. After he was standing tall again, Eddie handed him the printout of his chest x-ray and pressed his pointer finger against the center of it. “Look...</span>
  <em>
    <span>here</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Look close.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie held it at arm’s length, then slowly brought it towards his face. Eddie watched Richie’s features begin to flood with comprehension. “Holy fucking shit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Turns out your ego needs an adjustment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie’s face went through a complicated series of expressions as he took in the minuscule scrapes and dings that mirrored the initials on the guardrail: doubt, fear, awe. “Well, you </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> save me first. So… seems only fair.” After looking from the photo to the railing then back again, he added, “And it is pretty in-character for me to have put the minimal amount of effort into something to have it turn out pretty fucking great.” He looked at Eddie. “There’s no way I’m responsible for…” Futilely, Richie waved his hand up and down at Eddie. “...you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rich, I think it says a lot about your true character that you are picking now, of all times in your goddamn life, to be self-effacing and humble.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’d rather take credit for throwing the semi through Keene’s window. At least that’d make sense given what I was probably doing at the time.” He illustrated his point by miming a jerk-off motion, which made Eddie smirk despite himself. “I’ll tell you what I told Mikey as I hauled ass back into Derry: I didn’t go to Ludlow despite the many times I thought about it. I didn’t make any deals with vampires or a demon or find cursed burial grounds.” Richie handed the photo back to Eddie. “This town… it’s so fucking crazy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I’ll say. It is so, </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> fucking crazy. The upshot is that I don’t need to fear death anymore because it turns out you can get extra lives.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>guess</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Provided all the stars align and you crush an alien’s blackened heart. And murder the town bully.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah. That fucking guy.” Bumping Richie with his shoulder, Eddie said, “I’m sorry I didn’t know how to be both worried about germs and disease </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> express normal healthy adolescent junk so that we could’ve worked all this sex shit out in high school. I mean, it would’ve almost been worth Bowers and Hockstetter and all their bullshit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie swung his arm around Eddie’s shoulders. “Awwwwww, ‘all this sex shit.’ Eddie, that’s so </span>
  <em>
    <span>sweet</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Thank you, honey.” Eddie responded by punching him in the side. They began walking towards the Corolla together. Eddie slid his right hand up Richie’s back and rested his hand between his shoulder blades. Richie had to stop himself from skipping. “Speaking of, how about we go home and see if we can’t bang our way into some light arson? Burn the Derry Library down?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cringing, Eddie semi-seriously worried, “You’re enjoying this too much. You’re going to be responsible when some super secret government agency disappears the two of us and we end up being added to the X-Men or something.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I call Wolverine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>call</span>
  </em>
  <span> Wolverine. That’s not how it works. They’re probably going to use the power you already have, which appears to be accidentally bringing people back to life through your massive childhood crush on them. And also being seriously fucking annoying.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, now who needs to take their ego down a notch or two? No one said it was a ‘massive’ crush.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie emphatically pointed back towards the guardrail, then held up the x-ray photo. Richie carelessly smacked it with the back of his hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie’s phone rang as soon as the engine turned over. The console said Molly Ringwald.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re a go for Tozier.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the passenger seat, Eddie snorted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Holy </span>
  <em>
    <span>hell</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Richie! What did the two of you get up to last night? Mike sent us all pictures of downtown Derry this morning!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, does he still have a Google Alert set up for ‘Derry Maine weird fucked-up shit?’”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pretty much, yeah. So the two of you are okay?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie set a hand high on Eddie’s thigh, which was viciously pushed away. Eddie mouthed, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Absolutely. Fucking. Not.</span>
  </em>
  <span> silently but very dramatically. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re great. As a matter of fact… oof, </span>
  <em>
    <span>ouch</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Richie’s intended sentence was cut off by Eddie ruthlessly punching him in the side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re fine, Bev.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, hey, Eddie. Am I on speaker?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re in the car. We’re on our way back from the hospital. The worst of the tornado stayed downtown. You don’t need to worry about us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eddie’s stilted, telegraph-style delivery made Richie laugh into his hand for a moment. “And that’s it for the weather report. Thanks, Edward. Back to you, Beverly Marsh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Eds, didn’t you go back to Center Street Drugstore for your token? And you fought with It while you were there?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm, and now that place is basically a crater. Interesting.” A smirk was lurking in Bev’s dry voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yep, lots of interesting shit happens in Derry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Richie let out a bark of laughter at Eddie’s transparently phony cheerful tone. What a </span>
  <em>
    <span>dork.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Rich?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, Miss Marsh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anything new?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>loads</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Loads</span>
  </em>
  <span> of things.” Richie masturbated the air between him and Eddie, who responded by curling into the passenger seat like a frustrated end parentheses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I had a crazy dream last night that I was back at the cottage and trying to warn you two that we had to go to the basement because it was storming… but you locked the door and wouldn’t let me in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sounds like us.” Richie set his hand on Eddie’s knee again, which drew an exasperated huff from the passenger; however, the hand was allowed to remain where it was.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There was a </span>
  <em>
    <span>sock</span>
  </em>
  <span> on the door. Be honest: did you two…" Bev delicately left the next portion of the sentence unsaid.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bev, are you </span>
  <em>
    <span>jealous </span>
  </em>
  <span>that having sex with Haystack didn’t result in major property damange? Because I gotta say, we used the same bedroom. Maybe you two weren't in the right position.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Covering his face with his hands, Eddie shouted, “Richie, for fuck’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>sake</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Through the magic of the Corolla’s speakers, Bev’s laughter filled the car.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
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